


rose gold

by allonsysouffle



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: (okay; technically pop-punk alternative- but who's counting), AH Band AU, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Asexual Character, M/M, general banter, j-lo is there for some reason
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:54:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5630587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsysouffle/pseuds/allonsysouffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>"And then Ray wonders if Michael knows how good he looks high.</p>
  <p>
Ray wonders if he’s letting the drugs win him over.</p>
  <p>
Ray wonders if this is the prologue of a story about dying at the hands of cute best friends."</p>
</blockquote><div class="center">
  <p><br/>In which Off Topic is topping charts and Ray is toppling head over heels.<br/>And Lindsay wonders how the hell she's going to manage these assholes.</p>
  <p></p>
  <div class="center"></div>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. poets come to life

**Author's Note:**

> phew. this one's bantery.  
> romance and shiz coming later, friends. expositioning a bit.  
> anyway. they're punks! sort of. hope you enjoy!! <3  
> as usual, you can find me on tumblr at raymichael and twitter at @saltwaterrayne!  
> -E

 

 

> “HOW’S IT GOING, AUSTIN, TEXAS?” Geoff screams into a microphone as Michael backflips off a stage piece, guitar still strapped to his back.
> 
> Ryan laughs into his mic, and the sound echoes around the venue and buzzes, low and bashful, in their chests.
> 
> This night is a wildfire, and they love it, and the world is screaming their name as the pulse-pulse of the bass drum molds the crowd’s heartbeats into one simultaneous thrumming.
> 
> Geoff grins something hungry. “We are Off Topic, and- _Ray_. Ray, _why are you on Michael’s back._ ”
> 
> “So that’s the tone we’re going for today,” says Ryan dryly. Gavin giggles and taps out the intro on his launchpad.
> 
> Jack rolls his eyes, and lifts his drumsticks over his head as everyone gets back into positions.
> 
> “ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR!”

 

* * *

 

**{1;} poets come to life**

 

It begins, as things often do, in Geoff and Jack’s apartment, during a sweltering June. 

“Hey, Jack, you know what we should do?” Geoff asks, slurring, smiling like a kid.

“You’re drunk, Geoff, shut up.”

“No, I’m not drunk. Uh. You are.” He burps, then grins, then almost falls off his chair.

Jack, ever-patient Jack, steadies him with a hand. “Okay. Well. What should we do, Geoff.”

“We should-” Geoff hiccups- “start a band.” 

Jack moves to take the beer out of Geoff’s hand, and he scoots back, pouting.

“No, don’t give me that look, Jack- I’ll be bass, you be drums, we already know how to do everything- no, really, it’ll be easy-”

Geoff passes out on the couch that night.

Jack hides the beer.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t brought up again until that August, at a party down at a frat house- Jack knows a couple of the guys, and it’ll be fun, and Geoff is wasted again (because, really, when is Geoff _not_ wasted).

This is the point where he stumbles into a bedroom to find two boys playing guitar to each other, laughing, and he suddenly remembers how much he loves music.

They look to be around eighteen or so, the boys, shaggy-haired and skinny. One’s got dark hair and thick eyebrows and glasses and a rich laugh, while the other is all freckles and fluff and full lips. They’re wearing graphic tees and Vans, and their eyes are only a little bloodshot. They’re grinning wide and singing loud, lost in strings and strumming.

These two boys are Ray and Michael, and they’re only at the party because Michael’s stupid friends needed sober people to drive them home, and of course they went upstairs to find guitars, and of course they’re joking around, like, “Anyway, here’s _Wonderwall_ ,” and, of course, Geoff bursts in like the intoxicated piece of shit he is. He’s scruffy in a Goodwill getup and he smiles seedily at them.

And, of course, Geoff can’t keep the words from escaping. “Hey, uh-” _burp-_ “do y’all wanna join my band?”

“Who the hell are you.” That’s Michael, can’t help himself, all thorny and beer-softened.

“‘m Geoff fuckin’ Ramsey.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever, dude,” says Ray. “Could you leave us alone, jackass?” Geoff leers ever closer in response, almost growling (he’s _that_ drunk), and a squeak bursts out of Ray’s lips. “ _Please don’t throw up on me, oh God, why-”_

“You’ll know my name in a couple years,” Geoff says airily. “When I’m fuckin’ famous as shit. You could, y’know, join us, or whatever... we do need guitars-”

“Uh, dude, Jesus Christ, can you chill out?” Michael asks, rolling his eyes. 

“I’M SO FUCKING CHILL, YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW.”

Ray coughs. “Will you leave us alone if we agree to join your band?”

“Ray, _no_ , why’d you say that-”

Geoff’s face lights up. “Huh? For real? Holy shit, that’s-” _burp-_ “fucking awesome!” He takes out a pen from who-knows-where and scribbles something on a scrap of paper on the bedside table.

“Piss _off_ , though,” Michael presses, and so he does, finding his merry way out the door. 

The paper has a messily-written address scrawled on it.

 

_my apartment_ _(BRING YOUR OWN INSTRUMENTS!!)_

_block 2A, 47 Holly Rd + Lamar_

_hope u assholes are more talented than you are friendly_

_\- G.R_

 

* * *

 

Michael and Ray find themselves at Geoff and Jack’s apartment the next day, a mixture of ridiculously bored and morbidly curious, with a couple of instrument cases in tow.

It’s a shabby little apartment downtown, and Michael knocks on the peeling-painted door with a moment’s hesitation.

A scraggly-looking Geoff answers the door after a second, rubbing red eyes. “WHAT DO YOU- _oh_. Hey, it’s you...” He gestures vaguely at them. “You guys.”

“Yeah,” says Michael, barely stopping himself from groaning. “You know. Michael and Ray. The ones you asked to join your band.”

“I didn’t think- I... Wait, you seriously wanna join my band?”

“I mean, whatever, we don’t have that much shit to do.”

“Guitars, right?”

Ray bites his lip. “Yeah, but I’m not that great-”

Michael rolls his eyes. “You’re _fine_ , Ray-”

“But,” Ray cuts in, “I can also play the trumpet.” He lifts the smaller case. “Which is sorta cool, I guess?”

Geoff raises an eyebrow. “I guess. Look- I wasn’t expecting y’all, so, uh, sorry about the mess? I was pretty fuckin’ wasted last night. Hell, I barely remember talking to you two. Don’t expect too much.” He opens the door further, stepping back to let them in. “Welcome to the studio.”

The studio (if you could even call it that) is basically just their living room- wires all sort of _everywhere_ , Jack’s drum kit in one corner, a couch up front, a half-broken microphone stand in the center. It’s absolutely nothing fancy, and Michael and Ray both share underwhelmed looks.

“What the hell is it called, anyway? The band. If there even is one, which,” Michael says, looking around the shabby so-called-studio, “I’m having a little trouble believing.”

“Fuckin’,” says Geoff, stalling, “fuckin’, it’s called, Boners-R-Us.”

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re kidding or not.”

“Yes, I’m fucking kidding, it doesn’t have a name yet.”

“Alright, so, what is it, let me guess, an MCR cover band?” Ray jokes.

Michael cuts him off with a glare. “You’re the one who sold your DS to get a ticket to that show in 2009, Narvaez.”

Geoff screws up his face in disgust. “Ew, MCR, what the fuck, who do you think I am?”

Ray’s jaw drops. “You can’t just trash Gerard Way, oh my God, do you have a soul, Geoff?”

“Yeah, no, I don’t, sorry. And we’re getting off topic- to answer your first dumb question, we’re, like, genre-less.”

“Genre-less,” Ray repeats. “Really.”

“It’s like a weird mix of punk, alternative and really shitty rock.”

“So, is it, like, just you?” Michael laughs. 

“Nah. My buddy Jack does drums. And ukelele, but lets not talk about that.”

The answer seems to satisfy Michael, who starts taking his guitar out of its case. It’s his most prized possession, the guitar, a classic Bluesboy 90 electric beauty, all carefully painted in baby blue and cream.

“You wanna jam?” he asks, already zeroing in on the two amps shoved in the corner of the room and plugging his guitar in. “We can jam.”

Geoff raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, alright, lemme get my bass.” He bolts out of the room and returns near immediately- with both the bass and a grumbling Jack Pattillo in tow.

“Geoff, no, what now- _oh_ ,” he says as he sees Michael and Ray. “Who the hell are they?”

“Our new bandmates.”

“ _Geoff, what the fuck._ ”

“Hey! You said you wanted to start a band. So. Here it is.”

“I never-”

“Just roll with it, man!”

“Jesus- ugh,” he groans. He waves half-heartedly at the other two, who are setting up amps. “‘Sup.”

“Yo,” Michael and Ray chorus. They sit on the speakers across from each other, as Geoff takes his seat on a stool in the middle of the room.

And so they start to, well, jam.

Michael picks out a couple of little tunes. Jack taps the bass drum pedal, absent-minded. Ray fiddles with the valve slides on his trumpet, then sighs and picks up his old steel-string instead.

Then Geoff plugs in his bass and starts playing something, starts singing _something_ \- and it’s original. He’s been writing some songs lately, and his voice isn’t awful, and holy fuck, _Geoff Ramsey actually created something_.

They all stop dead in their tracks.

“ _Kiss my lips with your fist, and if you swing and miss, then I guess we’ll just call it a day,_ ” he croons, fingers flying across frets, and it’s _good_ , or, at least, it’s actually a real song, and it’s so unlike Geoff that none of them can believe their ears.

“ _And it’s all going to hell, and if you commit felonies, I swear that I wouldn’t tell.”_

Then Jack starts messing with the beat as Geoff moves into the pre-chorus, he starts tapping out the tempo, making it faster- then Michael and Ray start getting a feel for the power chords, and Michael’s picking out the melody from the baseline, and for once they feel like they’re creating something _living._

The song ends as Geoff grows quieter, starts mumbling, “Uh, that’s as far as I got with lyrics,” and Jack laughs aloud, grinning so hard his dimples reach his ears.

“Holy fuck, Geoff, what the hell, you didn’t tell me you wrote shit!” he breathes. “What the fuck? That was amazing!”

“Eh...” Geoff says. “Y’know.”

Michael starts clapping, slowly, a little shell-shocked. “Wow, man. That fucking rocked.”

Ray chuckles, low, smiling. “Dude. _Dude_.” 

It’s been such a long time since any of them have felt so alive.

Geoff heaves out a breath. “So, uh. I don’t think I’m the only one that wants this to, um, be a regular thing?”

“Hell yeah!” Michael says.

And that’s all there is to it.

 

* * *

 

**[18:28] michael:** yo, this is michael

**[18:28] geoff:** hey man

**[18:29] michael:** so who was that song about?

**[18:29] michael:** you know, the one about punching your feelings in the face

**[18:30] geoff:** har har. ex girlfriend

**[18:30] michael:** nice. what happened?

**[18:30] geoff:** well

**[18:31] geoff:** she punched my feelings in the face

 

* * *

 

And then, suddenly, it’s October, frigid and spiced and beginning.

And they have four songs hastily recorded and up on Bandcamp and SoundCloud and, finally, they feel like something real.

They’ve made a proper demo, as well, with the songs on it, and they’ve sent it off to a couple of indie labels (though, really, they’re not expecting anything to come from it).

And then Michael’s talking to Lindsay- one of his best friends since high school- at a coffee shop, because there’s one more thing they sort of need.

“Michael, I’m not being the manager of your shitty band, okay?” she says again, tossing her hair behind her shoulder.

“Aw, Lindsay, please, we fuckin’ need one, none of us wanna put in the effort to get us real gigs- you know, like, not just stupid open mics at bars.”

“What was it even called, again?”

“ _Off Topic_ , I told you,” says Michael, pouting. “Thought you would at least remember the damn name.”

Lindsay rubs her temples. “Okay, but why me? We’re both fresh out of high school, man, I can’t be a manager.”

“You already are!”

“There’s a big difference between managing a McDonald’s and managing a stupid lo-fi punk band.”

“Stupid lo-fi _pop_ punk band.”

“Whatever!” She flips him off with a wide grin. “See, this is why I can’t be your manager, I don’t know the first thing about the music industry- I mean, I could do violin for you if you wanted it in a song?- I barely listen to pop punk outside of, like, one All Time Low song- are they even pop punk, hell if I know-”

He lets her talk at him for a couple of minutes about why it’d be a bad idea, but he’s smiling wide, because he knows he has her wrapped around his little finger.

 

They’re proud, the four of them, of what they’ve done with their time- a four-song EP titled ‘It Was Totally A Mutual Thing’, a couple thousand downloads on Bandcamp with, well, _mixed_ reviews- but it’s not enough for them. Their songs are alright, sure, but anyone can write pop punk power anthems with enough teenage angst and hometown blues. 

Their main problem is Geoff.

He’s not a trained singer, and he’s not even very good- yeah, he can carry a tune, but his voice is scratchy and breaks so damn easily. Jack and Michael are pretty tone-deaf when it comes to singing, and Ray’s too quiet and thin-voiced- good for harmonies, but not much else.

Enter Ryan Haywood.

 

* * *

 

It begins with a letter.

_Dear Ryan,_

_The Admissions Committee has carefully reviewed your application to the Juilliard School. After much consideration, we regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you a place in our undergraduate program..._

Ryan is standing in the kitchen, curling in on himself like a sliver of paper in flame. He’s got his head in his hands, palms pressed against his eyelids to stop the tears from flowing.

His parents will be home any minute, and he’s gonna have to tell them that everything was a waste. The musical theatre, the vocal training, the dance classes... and he didn’t get in. He didn’t get in. After everything. The gap year, for rehearsing, the obsessive routine and how they poured all their money into him, for him-

They’re going to be so disappointed. They’re going to cry, just like he is right now, they’re going to scream at him, they’re going to stare at him with wide, wet eyes and straight-line lips.

He recognizes that he’s having a panic attack. He recognizes that the letter has slipped from his fingers and slid across the kitchen floor. He crumples in on himself, leaning against the fridge, and lets it all crash down.

He barely hears his parents when they come in. 

However loud they get, he won’t ever let himself hear them.

 

That night, exhausted and beaten-down and sick of his parents’ condescending comments, he picks up a CD shoved in one corner of his bedroom. He thinks it might have once been a Secret Santa gift from one of his classmates- some kid called Ray?

It’s a pop punk album, or something, and he wants to snap it in half when he first sees it.

But instead, he puts it on. And, for the first time in a long while, he hears himself in the lyrics. Sees himself in the album art.

And then a thought rises, and floats for a bit in his brain.

_Fuck them. Fuck my parents, fuck their expectations, fuck Juilliard, fuck college._

He remembers why he got interested in music in the first place. He remembers seeing a musical when he was seven and thinking, _I wanna be like them._

And then he realizes there are other ways to perform to a crowd.

 

* * *

 

**Ryan Haywood**

hey, this is ryan, you know, from SFHS?

 

**Ray Narvaez, Jr.**

uh. i know, i remember you

did u want something?

 

**Ryan Haywood**

ok. um, just wanted to let you know i finally listened to that album you gave me, like, 2 years ago.

 

**Ray Narvaez, Jr.**

dude i barely remember that holy shit

u like it? never penned u as a pop punk kinda dude

 

**Ryan Haywood**

yeah, actually, i kinda love it. i was really wondering whether you had any other recommendations for similar stuff? 

 

**Ray Narvaez, Jr.**

woah really? haha oh my god

uh, idk, im into pierce the veil’s new stuff, um, mcr’s always good, and, uh

actually

im sort of in a band as well 

 

**Ryan Haywood**

that’s cool. pop punk, im guessing?

 

**Ray Narvaez, Jr.**

ha, something like that

we totally fucking suck. buy our ep?

(offtopic.bandcamp.com)

 

**Ryan Haywood**

i’ll give it a listen!

..

no offense, but does your singer know what a melody is?

 

**Ray Narvaez, Jr.**

aha, you sing, right, i forgot

yeah, no, hes awful

oh... holy shit

you could, you know, always join the band and sing for us, i mean, whatever 

(cause god knows geoff sounds like a dying cat with mega-aids)

 

**Ryan Haywood**

hm. i mean, i don’t know, i’ve got a lot of shit on my plate right now.

 

**Ray Narvaez, Jr.**

aw, please, we need someone with actual experience

just come for one rehearsal, record a couple of songs or whatever

 

**Ryan Haywood**

can i get back to you on that?

 

* * *

 

So Michael and Geoff and Jack are setting up for rehearsal about a week later when Ray bursts through the door, pulling a flustered, tall guy along with him.

“Who the fuck,” says Geoff, not even looking up, “is he.”

“Did you finally get a boyfriend?” Michael drawls.

“No! shut up.” Ray grins, a little feral. “This is Ryan Haywood, or our lord and fucking savior.”

Their ‘lord and savior’ has swoopy hair, and is wearing skinny jeans and the rattiest t-shirt he owns, which, to be perfectly honest, isn’t ratty at all. He’s the spitting image of every preppy pop punk singer playing Warped Tour from 2007 onwards, which is to say, he’s perfect for the job.

The great thing is, he’s actually sort of hot. 

(No one in the band seems to want to mention this.)

Jack raises a slow eyebrow as he scans the guy from head to toe. “Huh.”

Ryan waves awkwardly. “Uh, hi. I’m Ryan. Haywood. I’m a singer, I guess.”

“That fucking fills me with confidence,” Geoff mutters.

Michael tilts his head like a confused puppy. “Hey, do I know you? How the hell do you know Ray?”

“We were classmates,” says Ryan, just as Ray says, “Secret Santa, fuckin’, obviously.”

Michael furrows his eyebrows. “Okay, cool, sure, whatever. So you can actually sing?”

“I was classically trained with a specialty in musical theatre.”

Geoff scrunches up his face as if there’s a bad smell under his nose. “That- that’s not fuckin’ punk.”

“Does it matter?”

“YEAH, IT FUCKING DOES.”

Jack steps forward, holding his hands out. “Alright, guys, guys, let’s give him a chance.”

Ryan huffs. “I didn’t even want to come, so, who cares, I’ll just fucking leave if y’all don’t want me.”

“No!” says Ray, pouting. “Aw, c’mon, man, I know you’re talented as shit.” He stares Geoff directly in the eye. “ _He’s talented as shit_.”

Ryan shrugs. “I listened to your songs. They’re pretty okay, and to be honest, Ray convinced me this would be fun. So, uh, ‘long live pop punk’, or whatever it is the kids are saying these days.”

Michael frowns. “Um, sorry, just one question, Ryan. Why the hell do you _really_ want to join? ‘Cause I know from experience Ray sucks shit at convincing people to do things.”

“Hey!”

“It’s true.”

Ryan bites his lip. “Uh, so, this is stupid, but I sort of just want to, uh.” He lowers his voice. “Rebel a little.” He lowers his voice even more. “Because I didn’t get into a good college.”

“That explains it,” says Jack, clapping Ryan on that back. “Okay, time to get all that teenage angst out, dude. Show us what you got. You heard our songs, right? You can sing along?”

Ryan’s already pulling the lyrics up on his phone. “Yeah, I can do it.”

Ray starts strumming the chords for what they consider to be their best song (which means that it doesn’t give people earaches when they listen to it), _Stupid Heart_ , and Jack pounds the bass drum. Geoff comes in with the bassline, dark and gritty, Ray holds his trumpet up to his lips, and Michael picks out the melody, reverb settling in their chests. 

Ryan starts singing, grabbing the mic, and Geoff almost drops the bass. Literally, he stops playing for a second because _holy fuck, that man’s voice is goddamn heavenly._

And that’s when things start to get really good.

And that’s when Geoff realizes he shouldn’t sing, he _can’t_ sing, not like this, not like Ryan Haywood can.

“ _You lift it up, my stupid heart, somewhere, your eyes, they look like art_ ,” Ryan warbles, clear and strong and shouting. “ _A million miles away, blinking in blue-gray_.” He starts to riff a little, too, creating his own version of the melody, smiling so wide in the sway of the song. 

Michael has to laugh, and Ray joins, because nothing could possibly sound better than this. It all seems to be coming together, in this moment, everything everything everything.

“ _We find home in a heartbeat._ ” Ryan ends the song, spoken. “ _When our eyes meet._ ”

He stops, and breathes, and breathes. 

Everyone’s stunned in silence.

“We are the greatest band ever, in the entire world, of all time,” Geoff says, awe-struck. 

Michael smirks. “All hail our lord and savior, Ryan Haywood.”

 

* * *

 

But there’s another thing that they suck ass at, one more piece they need- production.

Enter Gavin Free.

 

It’s a cold day, and everyone’s exhausted from work, and they’re playing back a demo to one of their less powerful songs, and Ray’s eyes are rolled so far back into his head that he becomes effectively blind for a couple of seconds.

“This sucks,” he mutters. “Our production is fucking awful. We have to get into a real recording studio- or, fuck, at least record on something other than GarageBand.”

Ryan snickers. “Yeah, you’re right.”

So, like any normal fucking human being, Geoff puts out a Craigslist ad.

Which goes something like this.

 

**austin > community > musicians**

**PUNK BAND SEEKING SOMEONE TO PRODUCE OUR SHIT**

we’re off topic, a local band, and we’re looking for someone to help us record our new album. needs a solid studio and experience with music software (because we seriously don’t know how half this shit works) (why are there so many buttons?).

ability to play other musical instruments is helpful but not required. if you wanna join the band and you’re real good at something, that’s cool too.

we’ll pay you a bunch. we swear.

_• do NOT contact me with unsolicited services or offers_

 

No emails come until two days later.

 

[gavin.free@gmail.com](mailto:gavin.free@gmail.com)

**subj: RE- seeking producer**

Hi! 

I’m an up-and-coming DJ with a bit of experience producing a couple of singles for friends. 

I’d be willing to produce your album for you, I’ve got a little studio apartment here in Austin with a bunch of equipment (assuming you’ve got instruments and wires and things). 

I can play the piano pretty damn well, too, if you need it.

Write me back with your rates and we can set up a time to start recording everything.

-G

 

Geoff’s sitting at his laptop when the email comes in, and he reads it over with thinly veiled excitement.

“Jack!” he calls to the kitchen after shooting off a reply. “Jack, we got a dude!”

“I don’t even want to know the context.”

 

* * *

 

So, Gavin’s totally fucked.

He stirs his bowl of Top Ramen morosely as he stares at his bank account details and lets a sigh escape his throat.

Triple digits, and he hasn’t even paid his rent yet.

He shuts his laptop and spins around in his chair, running his fingers through his shaggy hair. He hasn’t even had the time to get a freaking haircut, let alone go out looking for a job.

It’s been a long year.

Moving to Austin to pursue music _(it’s a city of the arts, that’s what everyone said-)_ was an investment he honestly couldn’t take. He’s got no friends here, knows practically no one,  and sleeps most of his days away. He’d thought he’d have had more DJ gigs by now, but the scene in this city is stagnant and bland. His SoundCloud has a huge following, but what good has that ever done him?

A hundred thousand followers, and nothing’s changing. He should’ve gone to LA like everybody else did.

He’d started putting tracks out at sixteen, playing around with synthesizers and Logic Pro, then moving onto a keyboard and Midis as his audience grew- but no one buys anything on iTunes, and of course no one would ever suspect that the notorious Vino G would ever need donations.

His parents had cut him off when he told them he was starting a career in music. “ _You chose this_ ,” they’d said. “ _Don’t come crawling back when you figure out what a bad decision this really is_.”

And to top it off, he’s been stalling creatively more than anything. None of the melodies he writes sound _full_ anymore. There’s no meaning, no words, no substance. More often than not he thinks about joining a group, a real band, or something. Just so he won’t feel so alone.

He groans and loads up Craigslist, scrolling through ads for high school party DJs and bookmarking a couple with okay rates.

He just wants to make music. It shouldn’t be this hard.

And then he sees something, corner of his damn eye, capital letters yawning across the page.

**PUNK BAND SEEKING SOMEONE TO PRODUCE OUR SHIT**

He frowns. 

_Click click._

A grin spreads across his face.

 

* * *

 

“So, uh, you’re legit, right?” Geoff asks when they arrive to Gavin’s tiny makeshift recording booth, setting his bass down. “Not some kid that remixes PewDiePie videos?”

“Er, yeah, I’ve been doing this for, like, six years,” Gavin replies, huffing. “I can produce stuff.”

“Can we hear any of that.. stuff?” Jack asks, hauling in a cymbal set.

Gavin spins in his chair to face his computer. “Yeah, sure, whatever.” He clicks on a track, some original thing with a drop that could kill a man. Jack nods appreciatively, while Geoff wrinkles his nose at the liquid-smooth synth.

“No, wait, hang on a second,” says Michael, almost dropping a snare drum as he leans into the booth. “Nah, you gotta be shitting me, this is.. this is Vino G. Are you- _are you Vino fucking G?_ ”

“I mean. Urm,” Gavin stammers. “Yeah, that’s me, I guess. Stage name. Stupid nickname, honestly.”

Michael gapes. “Holy fuck. You’re my goddamn workout music.”

Gavin’s eyes are wide. “Bollocks, really? Glad you’re a fan, I guess...”

Geoff stands up, crossing his arms. “Okay, no, who the fuck is _Vino G_ and why is he apparently a household fucking name, because I’ve literally never heard of him.” Gavin pouts at that.

“Dude, he’s that guy on SoundCloud,” says Ray. He turns to Gavin. “Didn’t Skrillex sample one of your tracks or something?”

“Yeah,” Gavin says sheepishly. “That day was pretty damn weird.” There’s an awkward silence before he turns his chair back around. “Wait, what are your names again?”

Michael sighs. “I’m Michael, lead guitar; that Spanish-”

“Puerto Rican!”

“- _Puerto Rican_ fuck is Ray,” he continues, “also on guitar, and trumpet, what a piece of shit; Mr. fuckin’ Scruffy McPunk Bitch over there is Geoff, bass; boarding school model dude is Ryan, vocals; and that intimidating hipster guy is Jack, does drums. Not as scary as you’d think.”

Ryan frowns. “Alright, this is all super nice, but, Gavin, have you ever done punk stuff before?”

“Er...”

“So you haven’t,” Geoff monotones. “Great.”

Gavin scoffs. “Okay, maybe I haven’t, but it can’t be too hard, can it?”

 

As it turns out, it’s honestly not hard at all. The six of them record four songs that day, which is all they’ve really got, and Gavin has never had more fun in his life. And then he starts getting attached to Geoff, and Michael, and all of them. Because they’re funny, and dumb, and kind of exactly what he needs right now.

 

[gavin.free@gmail.com](mailto:gavin.free@gmail.com)

**subj: schoolyard fight club**

Ey, blokes, your dumb EP’s attached. Hope you like it, because I’m totally sick of hearing those songs now.

Also, just inquiring, do you, by any chance, have an extra spot for a pianist?

-G <3 <3

 

He starts coming to practices a week later.

 

* * *

 

After they release that EP- _Schoolyard Fight Club-_ they start to pick up online. Maybe it’s Gavin promoting it endlessly on his Twitter. Maybe it’s Ryan’s sweet, sweet vocals. Maybe it’s the social media stuff they’re starting to do. Or maybe it’s just the exponentially improved audio quality.

Okay, it’s definitely just the audio quality.

“Dudes,” says Michael, on his laptop, when they’re all crashing at Geoff and Jack’s place as usual. “Our Twitter has a thousand followers already.”

“Seriously?” says Jack at the exact same time that Ray asks “That’s it?”

“Yeah, well, that’s not what you’re meant to be doing,” scolds Geoff. “You’re supposed to be-”

“Sending a bunch of labels our demos, yeah, I got it,” Michael says. “Chill. It’s not hard to copy and paste an email.”

“Not like they’re gonna sign us anyway,” mutters Ray. 

Ryan sighs. “Maybe we should get a manager. We haven’t even had a gig yet- oh, Geoff, sorry, no, because the fucking Christmas Fair counts as a gig, apparently.”

Michael twists one of his curls between his fingers. “Hm. I might have someone for the job.”

An hour later, he’s in the spare bedroom with the door closed, begging over the phone. “Lindsay. Linds- please, we really need you, we’re gonna get big but we need you to help us, we’re six fuckin’ boys, we need someone to keep us in line.”

“And you think because I’m a girl I’m automatically more organized? Sexist fuck!”

“No- no, that’s not-”

Geoff leans into the room. “Uh, maybe I could talk to her. Youre not getting fuckin’ anywhere any time soon. She’s Lindsay, right?”

Michael frowns, but hands him the phone. “Yeah. Good luck.”

Five minutes later Geoff walks into the living room, grinning lazily.“I just got us a manager, jizz-stains. She’s gonna book us some gigs, or whatever.”

Michael’s mouth falls open. “You got Lindsay to- How did you _do_ that?”

“Um. Money. Duh.”

“Geoff, we’re super broke,” Jack reminds him.

“Not for long,” 

“Yeah, alright,” says Jack softly. “Hey, it’s almost five, you’re gonna be late to work. Call center’s waiting, buddy.”

“Not for long,” Geoff repeats under his breath. “Not for fuckin’ long.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Geoff,” Ryan murmurs, first to arrive to practice, no surprise there, “I wrote this, um, _song_ , over the weekend, do you wanna go over them before everyone else gets here?”

Geoff furrows his eyebrows. “I mean, sure, whatever. You got stage fright or something?”

“Ha,” says Ryan, grinning wide and white. “Me. Stage fright. You’re funny, Geoff.”

“Har, har, get on with it, Broadway.”

“You’re seriously gonna keep calling me that?”

“I said play, Ryan!”

Ryan rolls his eyes, still smiling. “ I’m not the best at piano, but I figured out the chords-”

“On with the show, my dude.” Geoff sits down on an amp expectantly, bass balanced on his knee.

Ryan starts playing on Gavin’s expensive-ass keyboard, slowly, just basic chords, hesitant and careful. He takes a deep breath and lets the words fall out of his mouth.

“ _We are the hungry kids in love_ ,” he starts, melodic, high and clear. “ _We were the teenagers born of, polluted fears and downing beers and wanting more..._ ”

Geoff tilts his head, eyes soft. He thumbs his strings almost hesitantly, because the song is so pure and clean and he doesn’t want to intrude. The lyrics seem personal, nostalgic, almost poetic.

“ _To be alone_ ,” Ryan continues. “ _But hand in hand, when both of us understand, the world is loud and we are drowning in before’s.”_

Geoff starts to learn the melody and picks it out, fingers dancing along the frets, and everything is tranquil and sad and waiting. They’re both getting lost in the song.

Ryan stops playing after a while, lets his voice waver, and coughs. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s it so far. Um. Was it okay?”

“Holy fuck,” Geoff manages to mutter. “Was that okay? Ryan, the fuck, yes it goddamn was, you talented asshole.”

“Really?”

“Fuckin’, where are the others, that was beautiful, dude. I mean, not the most punk thing in the world, but fuck, Ryan, why didn’t you say you could write?”

Ryan’s smile is bright. “I didn’t know I could.”

“Well, you better teach it to the guys today, because I want this sung at the gig on Friday.”

Ryan laughs, but Geoff doesn’t join in. “Wait, you’re serious?”

  
“Abso-fucking-lutely. Hey, by the way, can you write our next album?”

 

* * *

 

“FIRST GIG HYPE,” Ray and Michael chorus, practically skipping around the stage at soundcheck while Geoff, Jack and Gavin set up their instruments and run over their setlist with the lighting and sound guys. Lindsay is standing to the side, chatting to the guy organizing the gig.

“C’mon, guys, get it together, we need this to be good,” Geoff says, gruff. “We’re opening for some big-name shitheads.”

“Big-name in the Austin underground scene,” Jack corrects. “Which is, uh, not that big.”

“Whatever. I hate all this soundcheck and lighting shit. We’re fine already, why do we need a goddamn laser show? Also, where the hell is Ryan? Also, who gave me a non-alcoholic drink, do they not know that I hate healthy shit?”

“Do you just hate everything, Geoff?” Gavin quips.

Geoff snickers. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“He probably even hates, like, adorable shit,” says Michael, laughing. “Like goats.”

“I fucking hate goats! Assholes, smell like shit. How did you know that?”

Michael raises an eyebrow at Ray, like, _who’d have fucking guessed._

“What’s up, guys?” pants Ryan, running in from offstage. “Sorry I’m late, the hairdresser was fucking annoying.”

There’s silence for a few seconds. And then...

“HOLY SHIT RYAN WHAT DID YOU _DO_ -”

“UM, WHAT THE-”

“JESUS, BLOODY HELL-”

Ryan stands, non-chalant, as the other five guys reach out to touch his head. His hair has been buzzed on one side, which would be fine, but for the fact that the other side is dyed a vibrant blue.

He just shrugs, leaning into everyone’s palms like a cat. “Cool, right?”

Geoff stares in awe. “ _That is the coolest shit I’ve seen in my whole life._ ”

“Wow,” Ray breathes. “Dude went from boarding school to Warped Tour in two seconds flat.”

Lindsay meanders over from the wings. “Wow, Haywood, you clean up nice.”

“Nice to see you too, Lindsay.”

There’s a crackle in the speakers, and they all wince. A sound guy runs over to them, pausing to yell instructions into his headset. He turns to them and rubs his temples.

“Alright, hey, talent, the venue opens in ten minutes. You’re on second, after _1800-Magic_. Y’all better get backstage and prepare.”

 

All too soon, the set is over and Off Topic has thirty seconds to get on stage, and Gavin’s fiddling with the dials on his launchpad, and Ryan is singing their setlist under his breath, and Jack is tapping his foot impatiently, and Ray is picking out little tunes on his guitar, and Geoff and Michael are talking about how shitty the band before them was.

“Alright, again, we are _1800-Magic_ , our album’s at the front, thank you guys so much,” says one of the guys onstage, and the crowd is worryingly silent as they leave.

“We’re up,” says Ryan, taking a deep breath. “C’mon, let’s show them what we’re made of.”

“That fucking _sucked_ ,” 

They’re crashing at a Denny’s after the show, and Geoff is stirring his milkshake morosely, mouthing off. “That was the worst thing ever. What the fuck.”

“No, that was okay, I think,” Ryan says quietly. “Just a shitty crowd.”

Ray’s face is buried in his palms. “I can’t believe I fuckin’ played the wrong notes during _Stupid Heart_ ,” he mumbles. “I’m never picking up my trumpet again.”

Michael slings his arm around Ray’s shoulder. “Ah, fuck it, it was just one gig, guys, we’re good.” He furrows his eyebrows at Ray. “You’re _good._ ”

“Michael’s right,” says Lindsay, chewing at a fry. “It honestly wasn’t half bad. That new song you guys’ve got? What was it called?”

“ _Grownups_.”

“Yeah, that was _so_ nice, you guys. And we were totally better than _1800-Asshole,_ or whatever. I mean, all you guys need is confidence. That’s it. If you’re willing to make a fool out of yourselves, you’ve won.”

Michael barks out a laugh. “Wow, Linds, that was deep as hell.”

“True, though,” says Ryan. “Confidence is a big damn thing. And I think that performance gave us a hell of a lot more of it.”

 

* * *

 

**[14:19] linds:** are you in your car?

**[14:19] linds:** TURN ON 96.7FM

**[14:19] linds:** HOLY FUCK

**[14:20] linds:** THEY’RE PLAYING YOUR SONG ON COLLEGE RADIO!!

 

**[14:21] michael:** what

**[14:21] michael:** FUCKING WHAT

**[14:21] michael:** ARE YOU SHITTING ME RN

 

“LINDSAY TUGGEY, WHAT THE HONEST FUCK.”

“I know, man, I know- why are you calling me, aren’t you driving?”

“You’re the one who texted me! And I pulled over, I’m fuckin’ responsible as shit.”

As they talk, their song plays in the background.

 

_“We were the teenagers born of, polluted fears and downing beers and wanting more...”_

 

* * *

 

“You’re not gonna believe this,” Lindsay pants, bursting through the front door and slamming it behind her. Michael sits up on the couch and jostles Ray and Gavin.

“Let me guess, Geoff finally got over his raging alcoholism?”

“Michael stopped being an arse?” 

“Ryan’s straight?” 

“Who’s straight?” Geoff asks, walking into the room. “Hopefully it’s none of us.”

“Not Ryan, apparently.” Michael smirks. 

“Yeah, figured.”

Lindsay groans. “You’re all wrong. Well, I think. I haven’t asked Ryan, but you’re welcome to try. That guy is scary as fuck, no matter how many turtlenecks he owns.”

Ryan jogs in from the other room, followed by Jack. “I heard my name. What’s going on?”

“Are you gay?” Ray asks immediately. Lindsay buries her head in her hands.

Ryan laughs. “Uh, no, I’m bi. Why is this a topic of conversation, again?”

“No reason,” Ray says casually. “Just curious.”

“More like bi-curious!” Gavin cuts in.

“GUYS,” Lindsay shouts, exasperated. “Guys. _Guess what._ ” They keep joking and chatting. She stomps her foot. “OFF FUCKING TOPIC, IF YOU DON’T LISTEN TO ME RIGHT NOW YOU WILL NEVER HEAR THIS INCREDIBLE AND LIFE-CHANGING NEWS, LIKE, EVER, BECAUSE I WILL LEAVE THIS APARTMENT AND LITERALLY MOVE TO NEBRASKA TO GET AWAY FROM YOU FUCKS.”

Everyone shuts the hell up.

“What.. what the fuck is it?” Michael asks.

She takes a deep, deep breath, letting the quiet sink in, tantalizing.

“WE GOT SIGNED!”

Everyone just stares at her, silent. Scarily so. Uncharacteristically so.

Lindsay purses her lips. “We.. we got signed to a _label_. A real one. For real.” Still, there is only silence. “Guys. Guys, you’re scaring me. SOMEBODY TALK, FOR FUCK’S SAKE.”

Ryan whistles a low note.

“Sweet holy butt-fucking Jesus,” Geoff murmurs. “Lindsay Tuggey, you fucking masterpiece.”

“You’re serious?” Michael’s laughing, now, eyes crinkling, mouth hanging half-open. “For real?”

“Fuuuuck,” is all Ray can manage.

Jack smiles through a cough. “What’s the label? Who are they? What’s the contract like?”

“ _Please be Fueled By Ramen, please be Fueled By Ramen...”_ Ray whispers, and Michael giggles.

Lindsay breathes out, slow. “RT Records. Deal is, we sign the dotted line and get fuckin’ _paid_.”

“How did you even _do_ that, RT is respectable as shit.” Michael pushes himself off the couch and almost chokes Lindsay in a hug. “Goddamn you, Tugg, you really were the missing piece.”

She shrugs him off her. “All I did was email. A lot. A hell of a lot more than you guys did- and it worked. They like your sound. It’s a three-album deal right now, we’re getting shows, merch, and... uh, a national tour. This summer.”

“For real?” Ryan asks. 

“You’re damn right it’s real.”

It begins, as things often do, in Geoff and Jack’s apartment, during a wet February, and they make a toast to the industry, and Ryan’s lyrics, and Lindsay Tuggey, as the sun sets on success.


	2. so hum hallelujah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, y’all! thanks for your awesome reception of the first chapter, i’m really happy you guys like it!  
> in case you were wondering, the majority of these songs actually do have melodies and everything- maybe after the fic is finished i’ll put some recordings up on tumblr? (which is raymichael, just to shove that self-promo in a little further). lmk if you're interested!  
> hope you enjoy!! <3  
> -E

 

> **@RyHaywood:** twitter, huh.

Lindsay smirks as she scrolls through her feed, snickering at the unholy chaos she has created. 

 

> **@geofframseyofficial:**  i can’t believe we were forced onto this goddamn website. also, why does @RayNarvaezJr already have more followers than me?

 

> **@RayNarvaezJr:** .@geofframseyofficial suck it nerd

 

> **@OffTopicMichael:** twitter fucking sucks. you don’t, though, so that’s good.

 

> **@Jack_Pattillo:** Hey, Twitter, guess who just signed up? Hope everyone’s having a good day!

 

> **@VinoG:** lindsay forced everyone to get twitters. i might have a 100k follower headstart on all of them. oops

 

* * *

 

It’s early March and at this point all six of them are crammed into Geoff and Jack’s apartment, sleeping on couches and floors (and, in Gavin’s case, spreadeagled on the kitchen table, during one particularly stressful night)- because here’s the thing.

They’re writing a goddamn album.

Ryan and Geoff are on lyrics. They take the bedroom- quiet and dark and brain-wracking. It’s all ideas bouncing off one another and quick concepts and poetry, rewriting and overanalyzing and relentlessly Googling rhyming websites. From there they give Michael and Ray the rough version of the melody- those two fix everything up and figure out chords and scales and guitar solos. And then it’s given to Jack, for tempo and beat, and then they all pile into Jack’s old pickup truck to jet over to Gavin’s studio to record everything so he can build mockups of full production.

Lindsay’s on coffee duty. It might be the most stressful job of them all.

It’s all quick-fire recordings and late lyric revisions and, “I don’t know, what do you think about this chord here-”, and, “no, but is it _good?_ ”, and, always, “FUCK THIS,” or “FUCK YOU,” or “FUCK EVERYTHING.”

It’s the most fun they ever have.

 

Except it’s fun, until it’s not.

It’s near midnight and everyone is holed up in Gavin’s apartment- they’re recording last-minute pickups for their first single and everyone is tired. In the studio, the song repeats, over and over, as Gavin fiddles with effects.

Geoff takes a swig of beer. Lindsay’s there too, she’s doing a violin part later, and she plucks at the strings sullenly. Gavin curses under his breath about once a minute, and every so often he’ll call out to ask the others’ opinions, but other than that the only sound is the song- Ryan’s vocals reverberate through expensive speakers, and Jack’s drum part crashes and thumps in their ears.

“ _Go, go, I swear this city holds us down, no, no, you smile, crinkle-eyed as we hit the ground, running, we hit the ground running...”_

Ray’s breath hitches in his throat. It’s too loud, too much, and his head pounds. He’s been thinking a lot of fractured thoughts over the past month. Everything is so overwhelming and his heart is caught in a frantic race and he just wants it all to stop.

He thinks, again, of fame. He thinks, again, of spotlights.

“BOLLOCKS,” Gavin shouts from inside the recording booth. The sound emerges, warped and out of sync and awful, again-

So Ray bolts.

He takes off, rubbing his temples, and stalks out the door. He paces up and down the corridor, gulping in air like it’s ichor, and the ringing silence calms him with a soft touch.

The door creaks, again, and all Ray sees is a shaggy tangle of hair, and the barest hint of freckles.

“Ray?” Michael whispers. “What’s... what’s going on?”

Ray huffs, sticking his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “I can’t take this, man, I can’t fucking take this, I’m quitting.”

The wind whistles through an open window, somewhere, and the elevator creaks out its old shuffling tune. And it’s silent, but for the two of them- breaking and broken and blind.

“You... what?” Michael croaks out. The silence stretches as the cogs turn in his head. “No, wait-”

“I can’t do it anymore! We don’t really work together, it’s not fun anymore. We’ve got RT Records on our asses, we’re rushing through this fucking album like it- like it doesn’t even _matter_. And I’m not even doing anything, I don’t bring anything to the band, you’re way better than me at guitar and, god, you don’t fucking _need_ me.” He lets out a breath. “Ryan’s writing everything now. I can barely get a word in. What’s the point?”

His words echo- the hallway is long and ceramic-tiled, and every sentence is repeated through itself until they barely hold meaning anymore- just pain. Just breaking.

Michael’s eyes are blazing. “No, that’s not fucking fair, you can’t just leave me with them! You can’t make me kind of _like_ the band and then _leave_ , that’s bullshit!”

Ray shivers a little, though the night air is thick with heat. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

It’s silent, and they’re decidedly not looking at each other.

“Just think about it,” says Michael finally, staring at his sneakers while Ray is trying his best to not look away from the ceiling. “We’ve got a real connection, y’know. We could make some beautiful shit if you stayed.”

Ray doesn’t know if Michael is talking about the band or just the two of them.

Michael goes back inside. 

(He doesn’t know either.)

 

* * *

 

Ray sighs.

He’s lying in his bedroom the next morning nursing a headache and the burn that accompanies a straining heart. There’s nowhere to go from here- and he’s been thinking.

Last night was rash, half-thought-out and anxiety-ridden. He groans out loud when he remembers it- the hallway, the fight.

Without even thinking he picks up his phone and dials a familiar number.

_Ring ring._

“..Hey. Hey, Michael. It’s Ray.”

“Oh. Uh, hi.”

He takes a deep breath. “I fucked up. You were right. Fuck, dude, I don’t know-”

“Ray, are you... are you okay?” Michael’s voice is cracked with worry. 

He swallows. “Yeah. Sort of. I don’t know- it’s just.. we have all this pressure now. You know? We have real fucking fans, man. I don’t know-” He sighs. “I don’t know if I want that.”

“You don’t want success?”

“No- I, I just don’t want... attention? I guess? It scares me a little.”

“But you’re coming back?” There’s a hopeful lilt in Michael’s voice. “You’re not just gonna leave us.”

“No. No, I’m not going to do that.” Ray smiles slightly, alone in his apartment, eyes low. “I’ll stay. I just got freaked out, that’s all.”

Michael laughs. “Alright. Don’t go emo on me just yet, dude.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll save my Ryan Ross impressions for the second album.”

“God.” Michael’s smiling through the words. “Please don’t actually do that.”

“I won’t,” says Ray, pink-cheeked and grinning. “Promise.”

 

* * *

 

The man standing in front of them is broad in ever sense of the word. He looks like just about every media person out there- elegant thickly-framed glasses, polo shirts, an ironic cap. He’s got tightly cropped brown curls and calculating eyes paired with a hungry sort of grin.

“Hey,” he says simply, “I’m Burnie, I’m your new manager. And you guys are Off Topic, but I guess you already knew that.”

They stare at him silently, expectant. Lindsay is standing in the doorframe, rolling her eyes, and Michael stifles a laugh when she pulls a face behind Burnie’s back.

“Alright,” Burnie continues. “So, I already went over all the business stuff with Lindsay- where is she, anyway?”

“Here, she says, feigning as if she’s running into the room. “Sorry, got caught up with.. stuff.”

Burnie raises an eyebrow. “Okay. So what I need from _you_ guys-” he points to the boys- “is plans. What are you thinking for branding? Advertising? We need to think about marketing you guys as best we can, to a target audience, which seems like it’s gonna be teens, specifically girls. You’ve got real promise, but we have to make sure you’ve got the right... _appeal_.”

Jack frowns. Branding, audience, appeal- to him, they all sound like contract buzzwords which basically mean _commercialism_.

“So what you’re saying is, we need to change,” he cuts in, choosing not to notice Geoff’s glare. “You want us to change our looks, and sound, for... _appeal_.”

Burnie leans back in his chair. “I’m not asking for that. I’m offering funds if you _want_ to change anything. You know, better instruments, bigger recording studio- whatever you want, we’ve got you covered.” He’s smiling now, but bitterly. “I promise we’re not trying to scam you out of anything. I mean, look at Sex Swing! The Rubies! They’re some of our most successful bands, and I think you guys,” he gestures to them all, “can get even bigger.”

Geoff nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah. I- uh, I don’t know much about appeal, but I have a feeling this album is gonna be big.”

“Yeah?” says Burnie, taking out a notepad. “Big, huh. You got a theme, something that we can really push? An aesthetic? Is your sound changing?”

“It’s going to sound... nicer?” Ryan offers meekly.

“Nicer.” Burnie chuckles. “Alright, we can work with that.” He pulls out his phone. “Well, your other songs have a lot of punchy, more gritty lyrics- you’re saying you want to go more polished? More pop, or-”

Michael laughs. “Pop. Yeah, right. Have you ever listened to us? And anyway, why do we even need a theme for the album? We’re _fine._ ”

Burnie rubs his temples.

It’s a very long meeting.

“What were you all thinking in terms of.. fandom? Do you have a name for your fans, or-”

“Mate,” Gavin interrupts. “D’you really think we’re gonna have a _fandom?_ ”

Burnie purses his lips. “It’s something to think about- but I guess a name like _Off Topic_ doesn’t really present us with a lot of opportunity. I mean, we could always go with something more generic, like, ‘the Rebels’. I know one of the reject names for Sex Swing’s fanbase was-”

“Don’t fuckin’ mention Sex Swing,” Geoff laughs. “Not those metal fuckers. And, nah, I don’t think we need a name for our fans, or whatever. If we get them, they’ll figure one out for themselves.”

Burnie scratches his beard. “Okay, sure.” He launches into another long and arduous discussion on marketing and self-presentation.

Geoff grimaces. _This is gonna be fun._

 

* * *

 

The day their first advance paycheck comes in from their label, they all treat themselves to makeovers.

Well, they get some expert to buy new clothes for their tour and Lindsay half-drags them all to the salon- she’s been downgraded to ‘personal manager’, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean she’s any less part of the group.

Michael emerges with redder hair and a ring in his lip; Ray comes out with an undercut and a jagged pink streak; Gavin gets a shaved side and highlights, and Jack and Geoff scoff and run off to get new tattoos- a snare drum and the Off Topic logo, respectively.

Lindsay grins, looking them over, when they all arrive back at Geoff’s place and get changed into some of their new outfits. “Y’know... I never really thought you guys were pop punk, but damn. You’ve totally sold me now.” 

They’re all varying degrees of fashionable- Ryan is by far the prettiest in a simple dark button-up and skinny jeans, Michael’s wearing a beachy sleeveless top, a snapback and expensive white sneakers, Ray has a too-big army jacket paired with checkered Vans and a shirt bearing the logo of some obscure pop punk band, Jack has a simple striped tank top, Gavin has fancy new sunglasses and a peachy polo, and Geoff’s still scruffy in a fitted black t-shirt and his old ripped jeans, fiddling with the plastic wrapped around the new tat on his forearm.

Michael’s grinning wide, twisting an auburn curl around his finger. “Pink, Ray? Really? You went pink?”

“Shut up!” Ray says, turning red. “Pink is manly as hell, alright? Not my fault your masculinity is so fragile it regularly gets ripped to shreds by a fucking color.”

“No- I didn’t mean- it suits you.”

“Aw, thanks, you gay loser.”

“By the way, boys,” Lindsay comments, ruffling Ray’s hair and dodging a playful slap. “I think I just figured out an album theme you won’t hate. You’ll actually relate to it.”

“What is it?” Geoff asks. 

She smirks. “Rebellion.”

 

* * *

 

On the day their first single drops, they’re lying on the couch in Michael and Ray’s apartment marathoning _Friends_. 

“Guys,” Lindsay calls from the other room. “ _Go_ is online now!” She is, of course, referring to the music video- animated by some guy RT hired because the band wasn’t bothered to film anything for it.

“Cool,” Geoff shouts back.

And that’s that.

 

But one day later, they’re having an emergency meeting with Burnie at Geoff and Jack’s place.

They’re watching the view count stack up as they speak, and it’s mesmerizing, and it’s terrifying, and it’s really something else. The song plays in the background, peppy and punk and new and brilliant, and the high they’re riding rivals that of any drug on the market.

“So you’ve gone viral,” Burnie starts. “I have no fucking clue how that happened.”

The others don’t either, but they grin and laugh and snicker, still caught in that taut and brilliant energy that comes with success.

“Five hundred thousand views in under twenty-four hours,” Lindsay gushes, smiling like she can’t believe them. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’d say that’s fucking incredible for a debut.”

“It’s just the animation,” Michael scoffs. The concept for the video was a boy taking a girl from her deadbeat town- standard pop punk stuff, nothing mindblowing- but the animator they hired made it into more of a piece of art.

Ryan’s glued to his phone, refreshing the comments. “No, it’s not just that- there’s a ton of comments about the song, about- hell, they know our _names_. Damn. This is- I-” He pauses, looking around at everyone. “People really like us, huh?”

And it hits them. 

They’re really, actually doing it. They’re being heard. They’re becoming something bigger.

“Look at this one,” Jack cuts in, showing everyone his screen. “ _‘I’ve never heard a song that resonates with me so deeply...’_ Oh, and this one- _‘I’m in love with this band, even thought I’ve never heard of them.’_ Fuck. We’re actually doing it, aren’t we?”

“I’d say this calls for drinks.”

“Geoff, no-”

“Geoff, _yes,_ ” Michael says, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “We’re totally fuckin’ famous now. We can, like, party, and shit.”

“Party? We live in Austin.”

“Alright, touché.”

Burnie’s wearing a wry smile. “Don’t you want to hear about how well it sold?”

Gavin rolls his eyes. “Spare us the over-complicated details, Burns.”

“Well, we know that you guys are gonna be a fuckin’ hit,” he says. “I won’t freak you out with all the numbers, but damn. This might have been the best decision I’ve- _you’ve_ ever made.”

Ray is crouched on the arm of the couch, also reading through comments. “Yeah, don’t get too cocky, man, we still have a whole album to deliver.”

Burnie frowns. “How many followers have you gained since the single?”

Without missing a beat, Ray responds, “Eight thousand.”

“Fuck,” Ryan curses under his breath. “One thousand and one away from a Yu-Gi-Oh joke.”

Burnie ignores him. “There you go. I don’t know how you’re doing it, but you’re getting way too huge, way too quick. And, hey, you know what? If we’re gonna be celebrating, I’m buying everyone’s drinks.”

Michael throws his head back, mouth hanging open in a lazy smile. “Fuck. _yes_.”

Their song plays on the radio on their way to the bar. 

Everyone is a little too sick of hearing it to sing along.

 

* * *

 

It’s a few weeks later, and none have them have gotten over the high of success, and Geoff is staring at his computer screen with his mouth half-open, hand resting on the keys.

 

> _To ‘Off Topic’ (or whom it may concern),_
> 
> _We’re representatives from the Good Morning America program on NBC, and we’re interested in having you perform your single ‘Go!’ on the show, as well as having an exclusive interview with noted entertainment guru..._

Geoff scans the email, looking for loopholes, heart racing just a bit. He knows the song is successful, but... _Good Morning America_? When is he going to get another chance like this?

The door to his bedroom creaks open, and Jack smiles, sitting down on Geoff’s bed.

“What’s going-” He trails off as he catches sight of the email. “What’s that?”

“Jack...” Geoff murmurs. “Jack, was this a good idea?”

“What?” 

“I mean...” He drops his arms and leans back in his chair. “Off Topic. This whole thing. I just- I can’t help but-”

“Geoff, what are you-”

“Good Morning America wants us to perform for them,” he blurts out.

“Ah.”

“Are we getting _too_ big?” he asks, talking too fast. “We had, like, three gigs before we got signed for a national goddamn tour. Doesn’t that seem fucking weird to you? And- we’re all so irresponsible. Like, it helps that none of us really have much family to leave behind, but, God, it’s just.. fuckin’ fishy, you know?” Geoff sighs, rubbing at the sides of his nose. “It’s- I- Are we doing the right thing by this?”

“Geoff.”

“I’m serious.”

Jack fiddles with his glasses- new, expensive, thickly-framed Ray-Bans- and drops his shoulders. “I don’t know. I don’t know, man. I have my doubts about this whole record label thing, too. Like, how shady can it get? We never saw a contract- Lindsay said she handled it, but she’s, well, she’s just a kid. Like us. Like all of us.” He takes a deep breath. “What are we getting ourselves into, man?”

They sit, in silence, for a moment.

“And-” Geoff starts. “And I’m worried about the others. I mean, not really Ryan, guy can handle himself, but.. Michael and Gavin? And Ray? Don’t you think eighteen is too young to have a single that’s top ten in the Billboard charts?”

Jack frowns. “Yeah. It’s already gotten to Ray, we know that.” He shakes his head, looking lost. “Poor kid. I don’t think he ever wanted this.”

“Hope it doesn’t kill him.”

 

Geoff ends up forwarding the email to Burnie and prays that they’ll be too busy.

(As it turns out, the interview is on the same day as their first show of the tour. Burnie declines the offer. The whole band simultaneously breathes out easier.)

 

* * *

 

 

> **THE KNOW REVIEWS- ‘ _Hand in Hand in Hand’_ by Off Topic**
> 
> ✭✭✭✭
> 
> In their debut album, newcomers Off Topic prove that the pop punk scene is still alive and kicking. Though their first two albums (released on Bandcamp) are amateur and shaky at best, _Hand in Hand in Hand_ is an explosive collection of songs that’s already tearing up the charts.
> 
> It’s an odd mixture, though- singer Haywood’s clear and impressive vocals are paired with lyrics that can be tongue-in-cheek one second, but poignant and heart-crushing the next. The production, headed by DJ-turned-pianist Free (otherwise known as _Vino G_ ) is surprising and polished. 
> 
> In particular, their pop-punk anthem _‘Go’_ , which broke into Billboard’s Top 10 at it’s peak last month, has elements of electronica and gritty punk that are masterfully combined into something simultaneously beautiful, witty and fiery.
> 
> My personal favorite songs off the album are ‘ _We Are Grownups (Don’t Panic)_ ’ and ‘ _Fingertips_ ’- two surprisingly sweet acoustic tracks that struck a chord with me- less mainstream, less likely to be huge hits, but extraordinary and personal with real emotion behind them.
> 
> Off Topic is a new phenomena sweeping the nation- or, at least, 15-year-old girls in skinny jeans- but I can shamelessly say that this album managed to charm me, too, giving me nostalgia for feelings of carefree youth and the sheer, unadulterated power of adolescence.
> 
> _You can purchase ‘Hand in Hand in Hand’ right now through iTunes, Spotify and Apple Music._

 

* * *

 

“So, this is your crew,” says Lindsay as they stand on the stage that they’ll be using for their first show. 

Around ten-odd people in their twenties, all varying degrees of punk, are standing around and talking quickly to each other, but when the band shuffles in they fall silent.

Lindsay points out a pointed-faced guy with purple hair and thin-wired glasses. “This is Kdin, he’s the lighting manager- we’ll go over the plans for that later.”

“Kay-din? Is that a real name?” Gavin laughs. Kdin fixes him with a hellish glare and says nothing, sidestepping the group and walking in the opposite direction.

“Alright, moving along,” says Lindsay, coughing to fill the silence. “That’s Matt over there, he’s the set designer- they’ve got some really cool stuff coming for this tour.”

Matt, who’s lanky and shaggy-haired, waves enthusiastically just before he trips over his own set piece. A stocky guy in ripped jeans helps him up, laughing.

Lindsay points him out. “That one’s Jeremy, he’s in charge of all the equipment-”

“Hey, Lindsay!” A tall guy with dark hair runs over to them, panting. “Is this the band?”

“Hey, Trevor!” She turns to greet him. “Yeah, this is Off Topic.”

He grins, inclining his head. “Hey, guys. Sorry, gotta run- mics won’t coordinate themselves.” He speeds off, and Lindsay turns back to the boys, shrugging.

“Oh, wait, guys,” she says, smiling toothily. “I’ve got something to show you- JEREMY!” She waves him over.

“What’s up?” he asks. “How’s it going? You need something?”

“Where did you put the... stuff?”

“Stuff?”

“Uh,” Lindsay murmurs. “The new .. _things_.”

Jeremy’s eyes widen. “Oh, right. This way!” He guides them to a storage room within the venue, hauling cases from inside.

“What the hell are these?” Michael asks, getting handed something vaguely guitar-shaped. “ _What is this_.”

Lindsay smirks. “RT shipped them in.”

“Gifts from the big boss, huh,” Geoff murmurs, unzipping his case. Inside is a brand-new bass, shining in glossy black and white. He purses his lips and slings it over one shoulder, leaning to one side to check the balance.

Michael’s laughing. “HOLY FUCK.” He’s holding an electric guitar, beautiful in tan wood and matte green lacquer. “Is this- is this a Warmoth? _Jesus_. Sweet, holy, beautiful Jesus.”

Gavin pouts. “Oh, so I don’t get anything? Just because I’m the _pianist_ -” He shuts up pretty quickly when Jeremy hands him a white-and-silver synthesizer with far too many buttons.

“Holy balls,” Ray mutters, skimming his fingers over his own gift. It’s a guitar, too, but it shimmers in rose gold and pale pink. “This is the prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever held with my own too hands. And probably the most expensive. It’s gotta be custom, right? Michael?”

“Oh, fuck, definitely, look at the tuning pegs-”

Jack is fiddling with new drumsticks, a sour sort of look on his face. Ryan shoots him a glance, and they both roll their eyes in sync.

They make their way back to the stage, and Geoff nudges Ryan. 

“I fucking hate this new bass,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s way too pretty. Basses aren’t supposed to look pretty. Do you think Burns’ll get mad if I don’t use it?”

“Nah,” Ryan says, grinning. “I liked the old one too.”

“Can I just say, this is a way bigger thing than I expected,” Michael declares, sounding almost awe-struck. “Like- how many people are working on our set?”

“RT sent twelve roadies. There’s probably another ten or so that belong to each venue.”

Ray’s sort of wobbling in place, a little paler than normal. “Fuck. How many tickets did you say our shows have sold?”

Lindsay frowns. “All of them are at least seventy-five percent sold. Your first show next week is sold out. That’s a thousand seats, at least, per show? I think? Is my math right?”

“Fuck.”

Gavin laughs and elbows him. “D’you have stage fright or something?”

Ray scoffs. “Uh, no, it’s just sort of, um, y’know...”

“Overwhelming,” Ryan finishes.

“Exactly.”

Lindsay puts her arm around Ray’s shoulders. “Aw, cheer up, buddy. They’ll love you guys. I promise.”

“But what if we-”

“I _promise_.”

They all look out from the stage into that yawning empty theatre, and feel that first pang of terror paw at their chests.

 

* * *

 

“Alright, alright, ten seconds, let’s go, people, _move it!_ ”

Backstage is a chaotic tumble of preparation and quick-fire fixes, touching up stage pieces and running over setlists. Everyone swears under their breath, until-

The lights go up.

And the screaming starts.

It’s the moment before it drops, the hovering pulse, the stillness in the half-beat before the beginning.

And what a beginning it’s going to be. Jack turns to Geoff in the collective inhale.

“Ready?”

Geoff basks in the pulsing lilac light, wearing a wolfish grin.

“As I’ll ever be.”

 

* * *

 

>  
> 
> **@geofframseyofficial:** thanks for an unforgettable night, austin. see the rest of you daredevils on tour. x


	3. like you're made of glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on twitter at @saltwaterrayne and @raymichael! hope you enjoy this chapter! (and hopefully the next one wont take so long haha)  
> (also, how does weed work?)  
> <3 -E

Los Angeles is sinking in orange and rose. 

Gavin takes a deep breath as they descend over LAX, staring glassy-eyed and exhausted at the dappled sunset. The city has just started to glimmer in the dusk, pinprick lights and toy cars dancing the metropolitan tango.

After three weeks of nonstop shows, it’s press time. 

Fantastic.

“What’s the schedule again?” he whispers to Geoff, the air pressure dropping.

“Fuckin’, uh, ask Jack.”

Lindsay rolls her eyes, cutting in. “We’re in LA for three days. Tomorrow we’ve got four interviews, I think, then a couple the next day, and we’re doing Warped Tour here on Saturday, one show only.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of a big deal,” says Ray. He leans back in his seat. “Hey, Michael, remember when you _almost_ got a job so you could do Warped two years ago?”

“Shut up.”

“At Dave and Buster’s? And you quit after a day because it was too hard?”

“Let’s not bring my past employment into this-”

Ryan laughs. “Have you really never had a job before this, Michael?”

He pouts. “I mean, technically, no-”

“You were the fucking housewife of our friendship,” Ray says, poking him in the side. “I worked my ass off every damn day for you.”

“At GameStop. Poor _baby_.”

“Okay, fucker, let’s see you deal with eleven-year-olds trying to shoplift GTA.”

Geoff and Jack share a _look_ , like they’re worried, somehow. Lindsay claps her hands together and points upwards to the darkened seatbelt sign.

“C’mon boys, we got shit to do here.”

 

They take taxis to the hotel, some fancy place downtown, and Gavin has his face pressed to the window as the grit and glitz of Los Angeles passes by them in a blur. He knows this is the real hometown of fame, and he’s here, and he’s finally worth _something_ to the world.

Once they arrive and check in, they split off into pairs- Ray and Michael, Ryan and Geoff, Gavin and Lindsay, Jack and all their equipment ( _“Ha ha, I get my own room, fuck you guys, this is awesome”_ )- and head to their hotel rooms to rest up before press.

 

* * *

 

Gavin and Lindsay’s room is quiet. Almost immediately after they first met, they learned they were similar in too many ways- plus, Gavin was cool with sharing a room with a girl, so they’d been hotel room buddies ever since. It’s an odd but perfect match- organized with messy, lowkey with high maintenance.

At around eight, Gavin looks up from his phone with a choking sound. “Er, Lindsay, what’s... what’s _Mavin_?”

Lindsay,doubles over in a laugh. “Oh- oh my god, I can’t believe you don’t know. C’mon. Mavin. Get those gears turning in your head. M.... _avin_. Eh? Eh?”

He looks perplexed. “Mass typos?”

“Gavin,” Lindsay sighs, “Michael and Gavin. Put ‘em together, make ‘em fuck, and, well. Mavin.”

“ _What?_ ”

She rubs her temples. “Your little legions of fangirls think you and Michael are, ahem, _doin’ it up the butt on the reg’_.”

Gavin’s still scrolling. “Erm. Erm. Lindsay. How do I get them to stop. I, uh, can’t tweet with all these notifications- _oh god is that a drawing of us kissing-_ ”

Lindsay snorts and takes a swig of beer. “Get used to it, buddy, we’ve all got a lot of teenagers speculating.”

“Creepy.”

“Think that’s creepy? Have you seen the fanfiction? Michael read me one once. It was fucking weird.”

“Lucky you’re not in it.”

Lindsay shakes her head with a smile. “Nah, people still pry. Not as much, but, well. Y’all tweet me too much.”

Gavin frowns. “Well, you’re part of the group, innit?”

“I guess.” She swings her legs off the side of the bed. “They all think Michael and I are dating, too. Kinda weird.”

He bites his lip. “Hm.”

“And it’s stupid,” she says, “and it’s not like I’ve _said_ anything about it, but it’s like, I’m just so _gay_. It’s just annoying.”

“So date someone,” Gavin offers. “Or, er, just tell them. It’s not hard.”

She grins, but it’s bitter. “Like all of you did? Literally none of you are straight and literally none of you have said anything about it.”

He sighs. “Yeah. Yeah. But that’s- that’s label stuff. Bloody stupid label stuff, but you’re-”

Lindsay shakes her head. “Like hell Burns would let me start drama like that. Besides... I’m still not _super_ out. So. Yeah. It’s just not happening.”

“Fucking Burns.”

“Yeah.”

“ _Stupid._ ”

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

Michael comes back to the room after a jaunt to the hotel bar to find Ray lying next to the window with something small and rolled-up between his fingers, blowing white smoke out into the late-night breeze. A tiny plastic baggie sits perched on the windowsill atop a couple of waxy papers.

He flops onto his bed with a huff and a biting grin. “Yo, Raybles,” he slurs. “Pass me that thing.”

“You’re drunk,” says Ray simply.

Michael lifts his head. “Yeah, fuckin’ what? It’s just, uh, double intoc- itonx- intoxication.” He burps and laughs. 

“Dude, really?”

“What?” Michael slurs. “I can’t fuckin’ drink anymore? Pussy.”

“Dick,” Ray retorts.

Michael’s drifting off, a little, voice dreamy. “Perfect fit.”

They both laugh. Michael gets up and sits next to Ray near the window. Ray passes him the joint, and he splutters on the smoke. He pouts, and tries again. This time, he purses his lips, snaps his tongue, and blows a perfectly round white ring.

“Jesus,” says Ray. “You’ve always been too good at that, bro. Totally unfair.”

Michael grins as his muscles begin to relax and the bitter smell of sweetgrass fills his already swimming head. “I’m just perfect that way.” He lets out a content sigh. “By the way, this weed is shit. Where’d you get it, the back alley?”

Ray smiles. “I got my places.”

Michael raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, I texted Burnie. Dude’s got his own fuckin’ places. Shitty places, but they’re places. Guess he needs his downtime.”

They both giggle, then, letting wisps of white escape their mouths. It’s nice, this. This tiny moment. Michael leans on Ray’s shoulder and they both appreciate the warmth. The closeness.

And then Ray wonders if Michael knows how good he looks high. Ray wonders if he’s letting the drugs win him over. Ray wonders if this is the prologue of a story about dying at the hands of cute best friends.

He almost closes the gap between them, almost, and he very well could blame it on the high but he knows that drugs don’t tell lies. They only get rid of them. He’s getting drowsier and drowsier by the second now, and as his vision clouds, he sneaks another look at Michael’s lips. They’re trembling and pink and waiting.

And then he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, in his and Geoff’s shared room, Ryan is just getting off the phone, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Yeah, I miss you too, mom. Yeah. No, I will- don’t worry, I’m good. I said I’m _good_ , ma. Yeah. Love you. Okay, I gotta go, I promise I’ll come see you next time I’m near Austin- _yes_ , I swear, okay, okay, bye- bye!”

He hangs up, shaking his head slightly. Geoff shoots him a questioning glance, to which he replies, “Overprotective fucks.” Ryan tosses his phone onto his bed. “Hey, what- what are your parents like?”

Geoff idly taps his fingers on the pillow. “Kinda complicated.” The words come out just-so cracked.

“Ah,” says Ryan. “I- uh. Shouldn’t have asked. Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s- it’s fine. I get it.” Geoff gnaws at the sides of his mouth. “I- uh. Well, things kinda went to shit.”

“How so?”

“Got kicked out. Dad was a deadbeat, mom drank a lot... well, let’s just say she didn’t like me much. So, I, uh, moved in with Jack at sixteen, dropped out, got a job, got a bass, got here.” He shakes his head. “That simple.”

“Simple,” Ryan repeats hollowly. 

They sit in silence for a while, swinging their legs off the sides of their beds. Geoff makes a sighing sound that almost sounds like a choke.

“I just- it’s weird, right,” he starts, talking too fast, “it’s fucking weird, they don’t- they don’t even know about the band. They don’t know about all this, y’know? This part of my life is so huge, and they- they don’t know about any of you guys, fuck-” He takes a deep breath. “My mom kept telling me, it was about a week before I left, she kept saying I wouldn’t be anything. Kept saying I was a lost cause.” He laughs, bitter-toned. “Well. If she could see me now.”

Ryan smiles, soft and sad and full of earnest promises. “Let’s show her what you’re worth.”

Geoff grins, sharp. “That was gay of you.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” says Ryan, but he’s laughing all the same. He punches Geoff in the arm. “Hey. We’re gonna fucking own it. We already _are_ owning it. It can only go up from here.”

Geoff raises an eyebrow.

Ryan turns off the light.

 

* * *

 

> **@VinoG:** about to do an interview with @MegTurney! dream come true, been watching her show since i was 16. :D

 

> **@MegTurney: .** @VinoG Aww!! So excited to have @OffTopicBand on today! Tune in to YouTube.com/TheKnow tonight for the full interview!

 

* * *

 

Meg grins, all matte lipstick and rich red curls, as the film crew counts down before they roll the cameras.

“Three, two, one, action. Rolling!”

“Hey, everybody! I’m Meg Turney from _The Know_ and I’m here with Off Topic, a pop punk band from Austin.” She turns to them and gestures widely. “Why don’t you boys introduce yourselves?”

“I’m Geoff, I play bass.”

“I’m Ryan, I’m the singer.”

“Jack, I drum. But mostly my job is babysitting these guys.” He fixes his glare on Michael, who smirks.

“I’m Gavin, I’m the pianist.”

“Ray, trumpeteer and guitarist. I hope trumpeteer is a word. Look, I’m not a professional-”

“Ray, we _are_ professionals,” Ryan cuts in.

“Oh. Shit. Yeah.”

“Anyway,” says Michael, “I’m Michael, I’m the other, better, _much_ hotter guitarist.” Ray promptly shoves him and he nearly topples the chair. “ _Joke_ , joke, that was a joke-”

“Well,” Meg says, shutting them up, “You six have just dropped a _huge_ album- it’s your first, right?”

Geoff frowns. “Yeah. I mean, we’ve had a couple EPs before now, but yeah. _Hand in Hand in Hand_ is kind of our big debut. It’s, well, it’s kind of been overwhelming.”  
“How so?”

“First our single _Go_ blew up,” Jack cuts in. “Like, everywhere. We were still super underground before that, so to go from having, like, three fans, to suddenly getting tens of thousands of followers and sold out shows was goddamn incredible.”

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. “It’s pretty surreal. It seems really, really weird that I joined the band, like, a year ago, and now we’re this huge.”

Meg smiles, coy. “Well, of course! Fame must be a huge culture shock. Have you had any weird fan encounters yet?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” says Michael. “I mean, aside from bras being thrown at us, or whatever, the stuff that really stands out it the homoerotic fanfiction.” Everyone chuckles or groans good-naturedly. “Oh, yeah. That’s my shit.” He smirks at Gavin. “Everyone on Twitter’s always talking about _Mavin this_ and _Mavin that_. It’s hilarious. Nah, but I love our fans, I really do. Oh, and Gavin. My boi. Kind of.”

Ray pouts. “Thought I was your favorite, Michael.”

“Oh, well, yeah,” Michael says, like he doesn’t even need to think about it. “Duh. We’re bros.”

“Best bros,” Ray corrects. “Best bros forever. Best bros forever _for life_ , yo.”

“ _Hate_ to break up the gay,” Meg interrupts, “but we do have an interview going on here.”

The interview continues, inane questions about influence and performance and gossip, but there’s something strange and bright growing inside Ray.

Something warm.

 

* * *

 

They all pile into their hotel rooms that night after four consecutive interviews and a stupidly late bar crawl, a tiny bit buzzed, and Ray is wide awake and thinking.  
****

He’s got his guitar in his hand and he’s just noodling, a little, picking out tiny melodies. Michael’s passed out in bed. 

The light from fluorescent street-lamps is flooding in through the open window, slow and seeping like the tide, and it rests on his hands and spills onto the soft curves of Michael’s back. It’s four thirty in the morning and Ray has never felt more awake, because, well, here’s the thing.

Michael’s nose is dusted in freckles.

His hair is a mess, and the tangles glint in bottled-red.

Ray is plucking at his guitar because he can’t sleep now, he is thinking in lyrics and poetry, spilling out of his fingertips, spilling out of his mouth, and he’s woozy, heart pounding, struck by words like lightning, and he whispers, stanzas tumbling from his lips. He’s typing on his phone as he thinks, every syllable dripping with the thoughts he could never say, the sentences he could never push past his teeth.

He has never written a song before but there are words, somewhere, trying.

And Ray might have a confession buried in his throat.

Michael murmurs, muffled, something that sounds like, “asshole, shut up, I‘m sleepin’,” and Ray’s breath catches in his throat, and his fingers catch against the strings. The room is awash in pale lavender and sunrise glimmer, and it seems so very poignant. So very breathless.

It’s too early. It’s too early, and it’s too quiet, and the idea is too fresh in Ray’s mind to put into action, and he dabs at the space below his left eye because god damn it, he’s crying, silently, racked with sobs and gulping heavy breaths and his fingers are resting just in front of the frets-

It’s stupid. This whole _thing_ is stupid. It’s just an idea, just a wisp of an emotion and he’s letting it get to him. He’s letting it take over.

He puts the guitar down and quietly turns on his laptop, letting the spilled words tap-tap the keys for him. 

God knows he could never say it out loud.

 

 

> **> new document**
> 
> ** >rename:pulse**
> 
> your heart thumps, jack-rabbit
> 
> god damn it
> 
> im such a fool for you
> 
>  
> 
> your eyes blink, quick-fire
> 
> we’re so tired
> 
> last night we might’ve flew

 

The thing about Ray is that he has never been good with lyrics. He’s not the greatest singer- all mumbling and dulcet toned- and he always seems to be chasing the next syllable off of his lips, overcompensation in the adjectives and trying to squeeze too many words into too few bars. Now, though, now, the letters seem to leap from key to key, taunting and haunting him, and this song is bittersweet.

He bites his tongue and wipes the dampness from his cheek, disgusted with how much his stomach is rolling, with how close his heart resembles a hummingbird.

 

 

> and i’m around you too much
> 
> is it clear i knew 
> 
> what you were thinking just then?
> 
>  
> 
> and it’s the both of us
> 
> alone again because 
> 
> we’re too scared to lose when

 

The sheets are cool under his legs, and he’s trying to sleep but he can’t, because how can you just _stop_ when you’re starting to write songs about your best friend?

Best friend?

Is that even true anymore?

He’s running through it in his head now, a chorus of _not him, not like this, fuck, Ray, not him, anyone but him, any time but now._

It’s six in the morning and he’s trying not to punch the wall, he’s sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed and clenching his fists to keep them from trembling, and Michael is stretching his arms and yawning and Ray fakes a lazy smile.

“Morning, man,” Michael says, voice scratchy. “How long’ve you been up?”

“Like, an hour.”

“That’s weird, dude, we got here late. You sure you got enough sleep?”

“Yeah,” Ray lies, hoarse. “I’m good.”

“Alright. Big day. Let’s fuckin’ wreck that stage.”

 

* * *

 

They get to the venue at ten, only a little late- it’s Gavin’s fault, obviously, because it always is. The field is half set-up, a mess of multicolored tent tarps and safety barriers. Off Topic and their ten-person crew of roadies arrive backstage, everything still a mess of microphone wires and bare-bone staging.

Lindsay goes to greet the event manager, and most of the roadies run off to coordinate the stage, leaving the boys standing awkwardly in the midst of set-up chaos. Ray rubs his eyes and groans.

“What’s up, pinky?” Michael asks with a giggle. “You hit the joint too hard last night?”

“You don’t _hit_ a joint,” Ray mutters. “I mean, I guess it works. Still shitty phrasing.” He pauses. “And stop calling me pinky.” He manages a tired smile. “Fucking ginger.”

“He’s not really ginger,” Gavin cuts in. “More of a reddish-brown?”

“Shut the fuck up, Gavin.”

“Alright.”

Lindsay jogs back, clutching a piece of paper in her palms. Matt, Trevor and Kdin peel away from their own conversations and follow her back. “Alright, everything’s good, it’s all getting worked out. Setlist is here, it’s only, like, ten songs? Main stage, pretty exclusive shit.”

“Who’s on before us, though?” Ray asks, fiddling with his tuning pegs.

She looks over the list and cringes. “Um... you’re not gonna like it.”

“Huh?”

“Uh. Sex Swing.”

There’s a pregnant pause.

“THOSE ASSHOLES-” Geoff starts, voice cracking, only to be cut off by Ryan.

“Those shitheads have a pyrotechnics display, not to mention three years on us! What the fuck? We’re gonna look like _nothing_ after them!”

“Relax,” is all Matt says, calm. He shares a knowing look with Kdin. “We’ve got this.”

Basically, they have no choice but to put the fate of their Warped debut in the hands of their crew.

“If this is what I think it is...” Trevor starts. 

Matt smiles. “Oh, it is.”

“Let’s let them set up,” Lindsay says airily. “I heard there are gummy bears in the green room.”

“Fuck yes!”

The seven of them head further backstage to a room only identifiable by a printed-out sheet of paper tacked on, simply bearing the word ‘TALENT’. 

“That is super professional,” Ryan deadpans. “Possibly the most sophisticated treatment show business has ever presented unto me. I really feel _respected_ with this sign in front of me, you know?”

Geoff snorts and pushes open the door. Inside, his worst nightmares are standing by a bowl of candy, idly talking.

In two words: Sex Swing.

There are six of them- he swears there are only supposed to be four, what the fuck- all in those stupid fucking costumes, because they’re _performers_ , not artists. Geoff groans inwardly. _This isn’t gonna go badly at all._

“Hey, who’s...” Jack trails off. “This.”

One of the guys turns around. He’s ruggedly handsome in a blue bandana and a ripped shirt, and his hands are _overflowing_ with gummy bears. 

“Uh... sup?” the guy starts. “Who are you?”

Geoff straightens his back, all peacock-like, and struts over to the other band. “We’re, fucking, Off Topic. And you are?”

The first guy spits out a laugh. “Sex Swing, man, but I think you already knew that.”

“I absolutely didn’t,” Geoff lies, sneering like a kid bully.

Ryan frowns. “Hey, now, we don’t want a fight-”

“We do want gummy bears,” says Michael with a grin. “So if you wouldn’t fucking mind-”

One of the other guys, muscly and golden-brown, chuckles. “Sure, kid. Hey. lay off ‘em, Kovic. They’re, like, ten.”

“You’re, like, ten,” Ray mumbles.

“Nice one, Narvaez.”

“Shut up, Michael.”

“HEY, SEX SWING,” someone shouts from outside the room. “YOUR SET’S IN FIVE, SO IF YOU WOULDN’T MIND ACTUALLY BEING DECENT AT YOUR JOBS FOR A SEC.”

Kovic groans. “ALRIGHT, LARR, ONE SEC.” He rolls his eyes. “C’mon, guys. Let the babies play.”

Geoff shakes his head as Sex Swing files out. “Fuckin’ assholes.”

 

The day goes by, slow and languorous. Lindsay pops into the green room every so often to give them updates on the set, but other than that, they have to content themselves with listening to the other bands play, muffled, through the thin walls backstage. 

Finally, finally, that strange before-show time arrives and everyone is wracked with expectant energy. Geoff paces. Gavin’s listening to music. Matt keeps a bottle of super glue on hand at all times. 

And then the announcement comes on, that dreaded announcement, and they all freeze in place.

“THANK YOU, THAT WAS THE RUBIES! GIVE IT UP FOR THEM ONE MORE TIME!”

Ryan takes a deep breath. Runs over the lyrics in his head again.

“ON NEXT, YOU’VE HEARD THEM ON THE RADIO, AND NOW THEY’RE MAKING THEIR WARPED TOUR DEBUT, EXCLUSIVE TO L.A.! INTRODUCING... OFF TOPIC!”

They walk ever-so-slowly, ever-so-awkwardly onstage, wringing their hands. Ryan clutches his microphone in sweating palms.

The sun is setting before them, lighting up the Californian desert in stretching strokes of paint, gold and dusty rose and blood orange. The crowd is shifting, waves upon waves of brightly-colored hair and festival sweat and ripped skinny jeans, and they erupt into ravenous applause.

“HOW’S EVERYBODY DOING TONIGHT?” Ryan yells, feeling energy rip through him like lightning. Like spilling over. The audience screams in response.

“I’m assuming that’s good,” Geoff shouts over the noise. “That’s good, right?”

Ryan laughs, sweet, low. “Alright. Hey, we’re Off Topic, and we’re here to make you a little less sad, or something.”

“You, uh, stole that from Scott Pilgrim,” Ray deadpans.

Michael whoops, and launches into the intro for _Grownups_. 

They start their set, and suddenly everything slots into place, because this is them. This is Off Topic, these are the broken boys, the kids looped in an urgent adolescence, this is _them_ \- and tonight, the world sings a little.

Tonight, the world burns a little.

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

Jack’s pounding the bass drum, forehead sweat-drenched.

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

Ray and Michael are looking at each other as they stomp their feet in unison.

_Thump._

_Thump._

The song ends. The venue is ripe with a dizzying energy and all Ryan has to do is-

_Thump._

He taps the microphone.

“This is a song called _The Met_ ,” he says, a little shaky, and the crowd shouts their praise. “It’s a new one, so, I hope you guys like it.”

“OF FUCKING COURSE WE WILL,” hollers a girl in the front.

He breaks into a smile.

Gavin plays the intro- simple grand piano settings, with a reverb to stop hearts in their tracks, and Ryan closes his eyes. Starts to sing.

“ _You were a slow dance, you were a poem, it’s fine, I’m fine_.” Deep breath. “ _You are an art form, this is a memory... it’s fine, I’m fine_.”

Ray comes in with a morose, muted blast on the trumpet, amplified, washing watercolor notes over the grounds, echoing through the hollow dark. It bellows like a foghorn. The sun has nearly dipped completely below the horizon, and the entire world seems frozen in the dusk.

Then the floodlights come on as the chorus starts, and the crowd goes wild, and Jack is keeping time with simple beats of the bass drum, and Geoff wipes something from his eyes- whether it’s sweat or tears he doesn’t know, but he does know that something inside him is pulsing, racing like a goddamn heart attack, and his vision is tunneled but he can’t be fucked to keep up with the consequences.

Ryan’s screaming out the chorus and the world is screaming it back. The stage blooms in shimmering light as geysers of sparklers shoot gold and glitter into the air.

Sparks are flying in the red, red dusk and the sky looks like it’s swirling, everything spinning that sweet-song dance.

“ _At dawn,_ ” Ryan screams as the stars blink above, “ _in fellow feeling, misbehaving, disbelieving..._ ”

Michael does a backflip off a stage piece as Jack crashes the cymbals and the crowd feels that same whirling adrenaline as he does. Ray laughs. Gavin drops the bass and the speakers thump and it feels as if all of their pain disappears.

“ _And you were slightly out of tune._ ”

 

* * *

 

Then comes the after-party, and the drinks, and Ryan’s standing against the wall at the back of the thrumming LA club at three in the morning, trying to ignore what’s happening around him.

“Warped throws a good party,” Ray comments beside him. “Sucks about all the gross shit people do.”

They watch as Geoff stumbles across the dance floor to sling his arm around some equally drunk lady that neither of them know. Ryan grimaces.

“Wanna get out of here?” he shouts over the deafening music- Gavin’s DJ-ing, because of course he is, and he’s got a weird tendency to give everyone headaches in the most beautiful way possible.

Ray nods, and the two of them push their way out through the crowds and out behind the club, leaning against an alley wall and passing the vape pen Ray snuck in his jacket.

“Shit’s not good for you,” Ryan says, taking a drag.

“Cherry-flavored, though.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” He runs his fingers through his fading blue hair. “So, uh, Hollywood sucks, right? It’s not just me?”

Ray grins, lazy. “Oh, yup. Totally lame as hell. Michael likes it though, and Geoff, and Gav. Guess it’s just not our thing.”

They stand in silence, puffing white smoke and breathing in the humid sweet air of Los Angeles. It’s nice. It’s quiet.

“I think I might like Michael,” Ray blurts out without thinking. The words tumble and fall from his mouth, tasting faintly of corn syrup and bad ideas.

Ryan doesn’t say anything.

“Like, _like_ -like. Michael. Is that... bad? Ryan. Rye, I don’t know what to do.” 

“Well,” says Ryan simply, “you might be kind of fucked.”

The words hang in the air. Ray sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“How long?”

“I- Couple of days?”

“Wow. Um. I have no idea what you should do. Um. Maybe, just, don’t?”

“Thanks, Ryan. Thanks.”

The club’s back door swings open and Jack bursts through, dripping sweat. He’s laughing, albeit a little shakily.

“Fuck, you guys-” he pants, “y’all won’t believe this, so- so y’know-”

Ryan frowns. “Slow down, man.”

“J-Lo showed up,” Jack manages to say through the wheezing. “Fucking J-Lo, guys!”

Ray chuckles. “Okay, welp, I’m going back in-”

Jack doubles over with another rumbling belly-laugh. “No- Ray- don’t-”

“You high on something, Pattillo?”

Jack’s still giggling. “And _Michael_ -”

“Michael what?” Ray asks, voice going uncharacteristically high. “What’d he do?”

Jack can barely get the words out now. “He- he fuckin’, he totally just barfed on her shoes.”

Ray and Ryan look at each other. They look at Jack. 

“Alright, who’s filming this?”

 

* * *

 

 **[08:12] burnie:** Michael. Call me. Now.

**[08:13] burnie:** This is kind of a disaster.

**[08:14] burnie:** DON’T TWEET ABOUT THIS. We have this handled. Call me when you get this.

 

**[09:45] linds:** you fucking jackass

**[09:45] linds:** did you seriously throw up on jlo

**[09:46] linds:** youre on the front page of tmz

**[09:46] linds:** how high were you??

 

**[10:15] basshole:** michael. 

**[10:15] basshole:** maybe we shouldnt have gotten so drunk last night.

**[10:16] basshole:**[ http://www.tmz.com/2015/07/23/off-topic-michael-jones-meltdo](http://www.tmz.com/2015/07/23/off-topic-michael-jones-meltdo).....

**[10:16] basshole:** that was dumb.

**[10:23] michael:** im so fucking hungover dude i cant read why do you want me to read

**[10:25] michael:** um

**[10:25] michael:** what the fucking fuck is this

 

 

 

> **@OffTopicMichael:** shit.
> 
> **@OffTopicMichael:** RIP my mentions.
> 
> **@OffTopicMichael:** also RIP J-Lo’s shoes. sorry babe. </3

 

 

> **@TheRealTuggLife:**.@OffTopicMichael fucking savage.


	4. from the top of my lungs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hi hello ! hope u enjoy this chapter and all the pain it may bring. tumblr is raymichael and twitter is noahrayne!<3  
> -E

 

> **@pastelray:** ummm what did michael do why is my tl freaking out
> 
> **@pastelray:** OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK.. did that really happen... is this fake
> 
> **@pastelray:** [softly] what the fuuuuck

 

 

> **@maviiiin:** FFFHFJGH DID YALL SEE THE TMZ PICS... WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE A RAT... BOI
> 
> **@maviiiin:** I HATE THAT I STAN MICHAEL FUCK THIS IS SO FUNNY... IM GONE.... GBYE... 
> 
> **@maviiiin:** 11:11 michael stops FUCKING EMBARRASSING HIMSELF AHDJK and also a concert in my town please

 

 

> **@jackpxttillo:** YOO did you see the way ryan defended michael on twitter today? that was so CUTE im calling them myan its such a good #concept

 

 

> **@ryanslegs:** umm guys why is this such a shitstorm lmao michael is a person please stop dragging him :///
> 
> **@ryanslegs:** celebrities make mistakes omg it was an accident can yall chill ?
> 
> **@ryanslegs:** off topic is human. please remember that.

 

> **@bimichael:** uhm can michael throw up on ME ?? mmm yes barf on me daddyyy !

 

* * *

 

It’s a few days later and they’re all gathered in Burnie’s huge penthouse apartment, mixing drinks and laughing while they wait for him to come back from a meeting to talk about media bullshit.

“Favorite part of the last year?” Geoff asks out of the blue, kicking his feet up on the thousand-dollar coffee table in the suite.

“First concert of the tour,” says Jack. “That was fucking cool.”

Michael laughs. “Definitely throwing up on Jennifer Lopez’s shoes.”

“That was two nights ago, man, what the fuck.”

“I know, Ray. But this shit’s gonna be legendary when we come back for our reunion tour in 2040. Me, hot Latina lady, Louboutins. _Absolutely_ the best moment of my life. No, no, best moment of all our lives _combined_.”

Geoff raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that? ‘Cause I’ve had way more enjoyable moments- oh, fuck, there was this one time with my ex-”

Gavin clears his throat. “ _Al_ right, Geoff, enough of that, none of us want to hear about your bedroom explorations. Er. Ever.”

“Yeah,” Ray agrees. “Not all of us are fuckin’ heathens, with, y’know, functioning sex lives. ‘Cause fuck that shit, am I right?” 

Jack grins. “Well, with all the stage gay you’ve got going on with Michael you could’ve fooled us.”

Michael laughs, his smile wide and sharp. 

Ray hums quietly, rolls his eyes, and looks at his feet. The room goes quiet for a moment.

“I really liked our Warped show!” Gavin exclaims into the hanging silence. “That was fun. That was _my_ favorite.”

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees, chewing his lip. “Maybe that one time in the tour bus near Newark, remember? With the High School Musical karaoke?” Ray can tell he’s trying to drag attention away from the ‘stage gay’ comments, and he appreciates the effort.

“And Ray was trying to convince Lindsay to do Sharpay’s parts,” says Michael. “Ah, good fucking times.”

“You _know_ I’m more of a Kelsi,” Lindsay laughs. “Ryan’s Troy. Ray’s Gabriella. Michael can be Chad.”

“But I’m the token minority of the group,” Ray whines. “Why can’t I be the sporty black guy that’s a mile deep in the closet? I’m halfway there already. Shit’s just not _fair_.”

Michael shakes his head. “Gabriella’s still a token minority. She’s just as Hispanic as you are. And Ryan as Troy? Nah. Ryan’s.... Ryan. Y’know, the gay guy with the hats? It works.”

“Hats?” Ryan says, incredulous. “When have I ever worn a hat?”

“Uh,” says Jack. “Why the fuck are we talking about High School Musical? I’m... I think I’m too old for this shit.”

“Jack, you’re literally twenty.”

 

* * *

 

 

So, they’re still in LA. 

Their next show isn’t for another week, and Burnie told them to take a break, so they’re still in LA, so everyone is bored out of their goddamn minds.

Michael isn’t allowed to leave the hotel for a while, anyway- there’s still a fair few paparazzi stragglers waiting to interrogate him about the stupid fucking vomit story, so it’s a smoggy Wednesday night and him and Ray are just playing guitar in their hotel room and laughing.

It’s like old times and Ray has never felt more alive, they’re playing power chords and shitty pop punk anthems, all Fall Out Boy and taking hits. Michael still doesn’t know where Ray gets his weed, but he supposes it doesn’t matter in the soft smoke-glow, the tangy taste, the pink-red eyes.

They’re still in LA, but they’re dealing, they’re pretending like nothing’s wrong, they’re pretending like they’re still just kids without consequence.

And then Ray stops playing, and he’s got this strange and terrible glint in his eyes. “I wrote you a song,” he blurts out. 

The room is silent. Michael’s last strum echoes and settles in their stomachs with a puff of sweet smoke.

“Huh?”

Ray tries to pretend like he hasn’t stopped breathing. “Uh. Um. Yeah.”

Michael frowns, then swallows. “Okay?” He dips his head a little. 

So Ray starts playing- soft, shaking, trying not to let his fingers slip out of tune. Michael’s smiling so slightly, so terrifyingly _slightly_.

“Your heart thumps,” he starts, near silent. “Jack-rabbit, god damn it, I’m such a-” He freezes up in the middle of the line and almost chokes on his tongue. “I’m such a-”

Michael is frowning now, like there’s an epiphany just in front of him, just out of reach.

“Such a fool for you,” Ray gasps out, and it isn’t part of the melody, he’s just whispering it, so carefully. “Yeah. Um. Yeah. _Shit._ ”

“Fuck,” Michael breathes. “Fuck, fuck, I-” And Michael runs, he bolts outside and slams the door, he leans against the wall outside the hotel room and gulps for air, he pinches his own damn arm because _fuck, how did this happen, how did we get so wrapped up, how did it sneak up on me like this?_

Ray’s lips are rose red and trembling.

Michael can’t get it out of his head, because now his heart is beating like a goddamn jack-rabbit, _thump, thump, thump_ , and he’s trying to control his breathing, he’s heaving, he’s losing it.

And then he’s not.

And then it makes sense.

So, Ray’s gay for him. Okay, he can deal with that. Ray Narvaez Jr., his best friend since the fifth grade, wrote a fucking love song and addressed it to him, and is currently waiting in their hotel room. Their shared hotel room. 

He can deal with that. 

So, Michael’s just a little fucked, just a little. He takes in a deep breath, then realizes he can hear Ray crying through the wall.

Alright, so maybe he can’t deal, maybe everything is running just a little too fast for his brain, maybe it’s the weed. 

Maybe it’s the smell of sweetgrass and hot cheetos and the fact that he doesn’t even know what love’s supposed to feel like.

Finally, finally, Michael sighs- a defeated, wispy sort of sound, like something is escaping. Like he’s letting something important fall away. In these moments, he supposes, anything can happen, which is why he pushes himself off the wall and slides through the still-swinging door. Which is why he gulps down the shock and the horror and lets only the new, fresh feelings rest just under his tongue.

Careful, soft, he manages to walk over to where Ray’s hunched over on his bed, and sits opposite him. He reaches out a trembling hand, five shaking fingers attached to a sweaty palm.

Ray takes his hand. His eyes are so wide and so watery. 

“What...” He lets the sentence die in his mouth, musty and wrong-tasting.

Michael doesn’t say anything back for a long while. He holds Ray’s hand, warm in a too-tight grasp, and tries on a smile.

“I’m not sure,” he starts. “I’m not. I don’t know what this- what _we_ are. Fuck if I know what’s going to happen next. But-” and here’s where his voice starts to break- “I do know that you’re important to me. Uh. You’re really, really something, huh?” He swallows the burning lump in his throat. “I just.. don’t want to jump into anything. You know?”

“I know,” says Ray. Quiet. Pained. “I’m sorry-”

“Please don’t apologize.”

So they sit there, hand in hand across the gap between two beds. Two joints lie side by side on the bedside table, glowing in a soft red.

Ray stands up, all sudden-like and shaky. “I don’t- I don’t know what I just- did we- do you-” He cringes slightly. “God. Smooth, fucking smooth. I- Fuck.” He grabs a keycard and makes for the door, but Michael finds himself getting up too, Michael finds himself reaching out his hands.

Michael finds himself grabbing Ray by the shoulder and the hip, and he kisses him. He kisses him, so delicate and trying. 

He kisses him, and it sure is something.

It’s odd and strong and warm, all lemonade and spice and sweat. Michael’s heartbeat picks up, bursting in time to the song their bodies sing. The fog in his mind starts to clear.

“I think this can work,” he whispers after he pulls away, and tucks his head in the crook of Ray’s neck. They sway there in place for a moment, to the dips and dives of a song neither of them can hear, a crude dance in the tang of smoke.

“I hope so,” Ray murmurs. “I hope so.”

 

* * *

 

“Gavin,” says Michael into his phone at eight in the morning, Ray’s sleeping body warm in his arms. “Gav, I’m _fucked_.”

“Wh- Michael- it’s bloody- eight in the morning-”

“Gavin, I- Ray- some shit happened last night,” he manages to say, slowly, running through the shadowy memories. “And, we might have, uh.”

“What?”

“Kissed,” he blurts out. “We kissed. A little. _Please_ don’t tell Geoff-”

“Oh.” Gavin’s voice comes out in a whisper. “Ah. Right. Urm. Wait, _what?_ ”

Michael hums, but it kind of comes out as a muffled scream. “Yeah, y’know. Me and Ray. Uh. Just guys, guys being, um, dudes.”

“You and Ray,” Gavin muses softly. “Right. Yeah. Alright. Urm. Makes sense.” He pauses. “LINDSAY.”

“W-wait, no, no, Gav, no,” Michael whines, “she’s going to kill us for this, please don’t, I think I’m still asleep-”

There’s a muffled conversation on the other end of the phone. Michael hears a panicked yelp and a frustrated groan, then Lindsay comes on the line with a terrible exhale.

“Michael Jones, what the _fuck_.”

“I know, Linds, I- I fucking know, I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be sorry, dude, we can work it out. _Shit_. Okay, okay. It’s gonna be fine.”

He closes his eyes. Smoke. Smooth. Lemonade. Ray makes the tiniest muffled sound next to him and he sighs. “Don’t be mad. I think we’re dating. I’m fucked, aren’t I? We’re so screwed, Linds, I hate this.”

“I’m not mad,” she says, measured. “I saw this coming, I guess. It’s just... Burns is gonna kill us.”

“I know.” Michael takes a look at Ray. His face is washed in that pale-morning light, aglow in the California dawn, and he melts a little. “I can take it. We can take it.”

“You better,” says Lindsay. “And, hey. It’s going to be okay. We’re going to sort this out. I’ll break it to Burns, see if we can talk it out later.”

“Thanks. Thanks, Linds.”

Michael hangs up. 

And then he calls his mom.

 

* * *

 

Burnie sends out an address and a time, and Off Topic make their way to a stupidly fancy restaurant later that day. He’s got a bit more gray in his beard than when they last saw him, and his forehead vein is sticking out a little more, but otherwise he seems utterly unaffected.

They’re guided to a back room where they can talk in peace, and Burnie sits down with a deep huff.

“Man, you guys are, um.” He scratches his neck. “Kind of not great at this whole _publicity_ thing.”

Geoff raises an eyebrow. “Right.”

“No, _not_ right,” Lindsay protests. “What the fuck, Burns? Apart from the J-Lo thing, what the hell have they done?”

Burnie rubs his temple. “You can’t _do_ controversy in the industry. Especially smaller artists like you guys- yeah, smaller, I said it, you’re no Kanye.”

Ray sneers. “Bet you’ve never listened to a Kanye song in your life.”

“That’s besides the point.” Everyone glares at him. “You can’t just expect everything to go smoothly with this.”

“With what?” Ryan asks. “What controversy?” Geoff and Jack frown, too.

Ray looks at Michael. “Oh fuck, we totally forgot to tell them, didn’t we.”

“Tell us _what_ ,” Jack implores.

“We’re, uh,” Michael says. “Maybe-dating.” His voice turns into a squeak. “Maybe a little.”

“What the fuck,” Ryan blurts out. “Really? Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Ray shoots back. “Seriously, what, you got a problem?”

“Why would I-” Ryan shakes his head. “This is.. yeah. Wait, why is that bad? Burnie. Why is that bad.”

Geoff lets out a deep breath. “Man. Man. That’s, huh. _Huh_.”

“Makes sense,” is all Jack says. “But you know what doesn’t make sense?” He turns to Burnie. “You. What the hell, man? ‘Controversy’? Romance is a controversy? Two guys fucking _kissing_ is just bad publicity to you?”

Burnie’s eyes are wide and regretful. “No, no- no, guys, I didn’t mean that. Of course it’s _fine_. I support you whatever the hell you decide to do, as long as it’s consensual. No, I just think we have to approach this more carefully.”

“Carefully,” Michael repeats, dumbfounded.

“You ever heard of something called positive association?” Burnie asks. “If we’re going to keep building up Off Topic as a brand, we can’t have a huge announcement on our hands- until something equally big comes up. That’s why I’m thinking- hey, we’re starting work on album two soon, and.. well, that’s gonna be big. Right? You get me?”

Lindsay’s lip curls. “You want to use a _coming out_... as promotion. That’s all I’m getting here. Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

Ray has been silent, but he hums in agreement, eyes rolled up so far he’s seeing stars.

“Okay,” says Burnie, scratching his beard, “okay, I get that I might not be the best person to tell you what to do in this situation, you know, I just don’t want it to be a big deal. Because, well, it isn’t.”

“Not a big deal?” Ryan says, incredulous. “You literally just said it was gonna be a huge announcement. And, yeah, sure, the world’s gotten a little better, but what makes you think this won’t be big in any way?”

Michael frowns. “Doesn’t make sense, man.”

Burnie sighs and says, “I never said that. I- Look, I’m no LGBT expert-”

“Plus,” Ray says automatically, with a glare. “Pretty sure there’s a Q in there, too. I’m not _gay_ , you know.” There’s ice in his words and fire in the way his voice cracks. “I’m just... I’m trying to live. I’m just trying to figure shit out. Yeah, no, it’s no fucking sin, and I know that, but you can’t just say it won’t matter to anyone else.”

Burnie’s eyebrows furrow. “Right.” His phone buzzes, and he rubs the side of his nose with tired eyes. “Hey, I gotta take this. Just... think about it, alright?”

The table is silent as he leaves.

“I’m gonna kill him,” mutters Lindsay after he’s gone. “I’m going to straight up kill him.”

“Lindsay-”

“With a knife, a big-ass fucking steak knife, right in his shitty stone-cold bastard _heart_.”

“I’m with you,” Jack murmurs. “Reckon we could take him.”

“ _Guys_.” Michael’s voice is a little shaky but no less powerful. No less angry. “Look. It’s just. It’s kind of complicated right now, okay? Can’t expect the world to be all sunshine and rainbows.” He turns to Ray. “Maybe we shouldn’t have told everybody so soon.”

Lindsay shakes her head. “No. It was right to tell us. It’s- ugh. Okay. We’re gonna get you guys through this. Burnie Burns or not.”

* * *

 

“Um. Ray,” Geoff starts, eyes downcast. “I really, really don’t think this is a good idea.”

It's later that night and everyone's gone back to their rooms, all a little touchy, and Geoff is trying his best to keep everything under control- he's the guy who started the band. He should be helping them through it. So he's with Ray, trying to piece everything together without ruining their careers.

Ray frowns. “Uh, what are you talking about?”

“The whole.. _thing_. With Michael. I just, uh, I don’t know if you should. Well. Go public.”

“ _Thing_ ,” Ray mocks. “It’s okay, Geoff. You can say dating.”

“Dating, yeah, but-” He sighs. “Like, hear me out, alright, what if it doesn’t work?”

“Huh?”

“Like, what if you guys fight?” he says. Ray’s face falls. “What if you realize you’re not, what, fuckin’ best boner bros? What’ll happen then?” Geoff turns to face the window, staring out at the city with a stony face. “You can’t date in the band, Ray. It just doesn’t happen. It always fails and it fucks everything up.”

“Are you trying to save me?” Ray murmurs. 

Geoff turns back. “No? Yes? Maybe,” he says, all at once. “I’m just worried. I couldn’t give two shits about backlash, I just want you two to, uh, be happy doing your stupid gay thing or whatever.”

“Geoff, you’ve literally dated men.” Ray laughs. “Don’t think you can say ‘stupid gay thing’. And, yeah. I guess you have the right to be worried. Shit, I-” He stops to let out a chuckle. “I’m scared as hell. Can’t take it back now, though.”

Geoff lets out a breath. “I know. I know, just, be careful. I’m worried for you two.”

“ _You’re_ worried,” Ray repeats. “Well. Join the club.”

With a sigh and a tiny shake of his head, Geoff leaves the room. Ray sits on the edge of the bed and buries his face in shaking hands.

_This was a mistake,_ he thinks. He can’t take it back now. He can’t do much other than try to hide it, hide himself, hide Michael and lyrics and everything he’s been dying to talk about for months now.

This is the point where his mood starts caving in. His chest shakes with ragged, regretful breaths, and everything is weighing down on him, and the world is blind, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t give for honesty.

The door opens with barely a creak, but Ray hears it anyway. He lifts his head, eyes and cheeks pink from breathing too heavy

“Hey,” calls Michael. “Hey, you there?” 

Ray takes a breath to reply but there’s a lump in his throat and he can barely get out a squeak.

“Ray?” Michael murmurs. He sits next to him and puts an arm around his shoulders. “Hey, hey, man, hey, what’s wrong- you- you okay?”

Ray shakes his head. Michael frowns and strokes his back. 

“I’m scared,” Ray finally whispers. “I’m really, really scared.”

“Of what?”

“Everything.”

“Might need to elaborate a little,” Michael laughs, soft, delicate, like Ray is breakable- and he is.

“I’m scared that this whole thing will fall apart,” Ray admits. “Not just us, but the band, and the money, and shit, and I don’t wanna go back to GameStop. And, I guess I’m scared of what the fans will say, god, listen to me, this is fucking stupid-”

It’s hard for Michael to watch. He knows he should be supportive, but all he’s feeling is anger.

“Fuck that,” he spits out. “Fuck what they think. You know what? We could tell them right now and it wouldn’t matter what people said, we still, like, like each other and shit. Listen, Burnie Burns is not the fucking fountain of knowledge. No one’s gonna be shooting us down on stage, here.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Ray murmurs. “Can’t argue with that. But, like,” he pauses, “what if someone does?”

Michael furrows his eyebrows. “Not gonna happen. We’re not even telling them, right? Not for a while. And who the hell cares if it goes to hell? We’ll still be friends.” He hopes. “We’ll still be guitar heroes, okay? C’mon. Live a little, Ray.”

Ray manages a smile. “Yeah. You’re right, man, I- yeah. It’s going to be fucking fine.”

 

* * *

 

“Are we doing the right thing by this?”

Ryan and Lindsay are in a cramped bar in downtown Los Angeles, trying to drink the past few days away. It’s been rough, for the both of them, for the whole band, and no option ever seems like the right one.

“What do you mean?” asks Lindsay, taking a sip of her gin and tonic- _seriously, a gin and tonic, managing six assholes has honestly taken twenty years off her life-_ and grimacing at the bitter tang. 

Ryan frowns. “I mean... letting Burns walk all over us. Like, not letting Michael and Ray... you know. It’s just. It’s just shitty, right? We can’t do much except take sides. But who’s to say RT won’t drop us? We’ve had our share of, uh, ‘controversy’ already.”

“They won’t,” Lindsay says, “they wouldn’t dare drop us with a top ten album. you have a point, though. We’re kinda pushing it.” She narrows her eyes. “Other bands have done worse. It can’t be that big of a deal, can it?”

“You’re gay, right?”

The question is quick and slip-of-the-tongue and off-putting. Lindsay almost chokes on her tongue. “Uh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ryan murmurs. “But you’re not out, are you?”

“This is kind of personal-”

“Are you?”

“No,” Lindsay mutters. “No, I’m not, and I know what you’re gonna say, like, fuck, I know. There’s a reason I don’t flaunt my goddamn sexuality and it’s shitty and I know _exactly_ why Burns doesn’t want this info getting out. I get it. People won’t like it. The band’s supposed to be sex appeal for teenage girls, so none of y’all can be gay, it would ruin the whole fucking guise. And that _sucks_. I wish it didn’t have to be a secret, but I understand why he wants it to be.” The words taste sour. “I mean, I’ll still punch that fucker in the face for saying it, but... he’s a little bit right, from a business standpoint.” 

Ryan grimaces. “That’s what I think. Geoff said it too. We, well, we can’t exactly do anything about it.” He sips his rum and coke. “Fuck, man. How the hell are we supposed to write songs if we can’t even slip a ‘he’ in the lyrics?”

“If you’re queer, and I’m queer, and the whole band is queer, then who’s flying the plane?” Lindsay jokes.

“Burnie Burns,” he says in a sigh. “And he might crash it if we’re not careful.”

Lindsay orders another drink.

 

* * *

 

And then, they’re on a plane. And then, they’re at the next venue and tour is beginning again and they can’t fucking wait to forget everything that happened and just _play_ for a while.

So they’re finally back on stage after weeks of tense waiting in LA, so they’re all smiles and sunshine, so they’re back home.

The crowd in Seattle is wild and screaming their names, screaming their songs, and it feels like all their troubles have melted away, because this is their turf. Their time.

Ray cracks a smile as he rests his fingers over the right frets, the right strings, and his heart’s beating that show-time crescendo, so he grabs the free mic from Michael’s hand in a burst of courage and sick-sweet adoration.

“Dedicating this next song to you- you know who you are, bitch.”

All the girls in the crowd swoon and laugh and pretend he’s looking at them, but their fingers are already flying and all through their shared solo, they have eyes for no one but each other.

Jack grins. “ _One, two, three, four!_ ”

 

When the show’s over and everyone’s crashing in their hotel rooms, Ray’s sky-high and still riding that after-show wave of ecstasy, and he’s lying in bed with Michael curled around him, and he’s reaching for his phone, and he has never felt more reckless.

“Im tweeting this shit,” he says, offhand, smoke billowing from his mouth. “You ready?”

Michael sighs, but he’s smiling. “Course I’m ready. Who fucking cares. Let’s just get this shit over with already, gaylord.”

“You’re a... never mind. Hey, what angle do you think would make Tumblr cry more?”

 

* * *

  
****

> **@RayNarvaezJr:** uh. yeah. <3


	5. america’s sweethearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, guys. my computer was out of order for a few weeks and i've been writing a couple of other things in tandem to this, so i'm really sorry this one’s so short. like, i can’t say any excuse, it’s really really short and i apologize profusely. it’s mostly media inserts, which i hope you find entertaining as well as insightful! enjoy the meta-ness and lowkey salt. love you! thanks for 1k hits! <3  
> -e

> **@RayNarvaezJr:** uh. yeah. <3
> 
> [RTs: 15k] [LIKES: 18k]
> 
> [exp. REPLIES:]
> 
> **@raysbitch:** daddy
> 
> **@mxchaelj:** hey COME TO BRAZIL
> 
> **@k0vic:** follow me
> 
> **@no1raychaelstan:** HJFHSJKABJSABAABSLAJNF WHAT TT WAIT A SECOND
> 
> **@bimichael:** OMFG G
> 
> **@pastelray:** ??? IS THIS A JOKE
> 
> **@axthetic:** CONGRATS OMG
> 
> **@acegavin:** NO WAY WHAT THE FUCK WOWOWOW
> 
> [ load more? ]

 

 

> **@no1raychaelstan:** FJKFBDSJKBUF UFCK
> 
> **@no1raychaelstan:** ARE YOUF U CKIDNF KIDIDING ME
> 
> **@no1raychaelstan:** IS THIS REAL .. ............ . HAVE MINE EYES DECEIVED ME. .... FUCK FUCK 
> 
> **@no1raychelstan:** HOLY FUCK RAY AND MICHAEL ARE DATING THEYRE DATING THEYRE ACTUALLY DATING ok im cool im cool NO IM NOT THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFEEE
> 
> **@no1raychaelstan:** MMMMM MY KIDS…. MY FUCKING HIGHSCHOOL LOVERS… how long have they been hiding this omf THIS IS INSANE 

 

> **@gvino:** WELL. ‘uh yeah’? really? thats what he had to say
> 
> **@gvino:** ummmm what the fuck. michael and ray? since when? what the fuck
> 
> **@gvino:** im happy for them but........... mavin
> 
> **@gvino:** i mean. what the fuck. that was outta nowhere. michael looks good in that pic tho. but.. man. i hope mavin doesnt die after today ://

  

> **@galaxyryan:** ew i cant believe people are still trying to bring up mavin. guys what kind of bullshit 
> 
> **@galaxyryan:** like.... thats so..... gross?? if ur talking abt mavin rn unfollow me. seriously, what the fuck
> 
> **@galaxyryan:** never mind that rpf ships are awful anyway, its just shameful that you’d bring it up right after they came out

  

> **@bimichael:** YAAAAAAASSSS
> 
> **@bimichael:** I CANT BELIEVE MY @ IS REAL PRAISE GOD PRAISE JESUS PRAISE WHOEVER THE FUCK
> 
> **@bimichael:** GUYS IM FUCKIN G ... TEARS.. ARE STREAMING DOWN MY FACE. .. . I CANT BELIEVE ITS CANON..... YALL
> 
> **@bimichael:** YOU MAVIN RATS CAN STEP OFF NOW .. IM M M MMMM STILL SHAKING TBQH

 

> **@0fft0pic:** #raychaelconfirmed !!!! WOAH its trending 
> 
> **@0fft0pic:** thats so cute tbh theyre so cute... bless
> 
> **@0fft0pic:** are people really bringing up mavin on my timeline...? guys. um. not cool. please dont. we have to support ray and michael in this!! :c

  

> **@michaelandgavin:** um. haha what. what picture. theres no picture
> 
> **@michaelandgavin:** man fuck this noise tbh mavin + raywood are endgame here. this has gotta be the shittiest publicity stunt ever made
> 
> **@michaelandgavin:** since when have michael and ray ever had chemistry... eyes emoji

  

**#raychael** _is now trending on Twitter_

**Off Topic** _is now trending on Twitter_

**#WeSupportYouRayAndMichael** _is now trending on Twitter_

* * *

 

**raymichael**

UMMMMMMMMMMMMM UMMMM YOU GOTTA BE SHITTING ME

LIKE. THIS IS UNREAL. THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY ENTIRE LIFE EVER

#holy…………..shit #this… cant be happening? #i…. am dead? #i cant believe its canon… the smallest ship…. what the fuck HOW AM I ALIVE #i talked more on twitter but. im in SHOCK #OTP: guitar heroes #LIKE #WHAT

 

 

**offtopicdaily**

so michael and ray have apparently just come out as boyfriends, which is great! we at this blog are really glad they’re opening up to our little fandom. but, we do want to issue out a few friendly reminders.

first: _please_ don’t talk about mavin, especially in comments or replies. it’s common knowledge that the OT fandom is pretty rampant with the shipping, but the last thing the band needs right now is us talking over them about something purely fictional. shipping is fine! but don’t be a dick.

secondly, be respectful of their privacy. we, as fans, cannot expect constant updates. be patient. it’s a new story and we don’t know all the information yet. michael has stated  here that yes, they are dating, and yes, it’s a very new thing for both of them. don’t be pushy about their sexualities, or speak on their behalf.

third, there’s going to be negativity. there hasn’t been a lot of drama in the OT fandom, and we don’t want to push a divide or create a ship war or anything. be respectful, and kindly call people out if you think they’re crossing a line or being overtly homophobic. _don't_ go overboard. we’re better than that.

#off topic #offtopic #admin post #be nice!!!!! holy shit 

 

 

**ryanfuckme**

WOWWWW did not expect that at all,,, im kinda into it ? never really thought abt raychael. hopefully thisll encourage the rest of the band to come out soon lmao

#theyre all queer. confirmed #personal #still waitin on u ryan.. just tell us ur bi we already know

 

 

 

**gavinfreevevo**

HAHAHAHAHA RAY AND MICHAEL? YEAH RIGHT. GET LOST

#this is so funny i cant believe y’all r falling for this shit #its obviously a publicity thing lmao #ot wank // #raychael negative // #*jean ralphio voice* mavin is CANOOOONNNN

 

 

**nonbinarygeoff**

do you guys even know what this means for lgbtq fans? aside from past tweets i shall not bring up ~~seriously i cant believe ray used that slur hahaha I'm not bitter~~ ~~-~~ at least two members of off topic are confirmed queer (apart from  very obvious subtext lindsay’s tweeted about w/ ryan and her). holy shit! that is HUGE. 

pop punk as a scene has very little queer rep and there are so many instances of homophobia and transphobia within the community and from a lot of big-name bands. 

hopefully this teaches the whole scene to be a lot more considerate (looking at you, sex swing).

(also, this’ll be a big fuck you to all the homophobic + biphobic shits in the OT fandom itself hahaha @ u all)

#teri speaks #now we wait for one of them to come out as trans omg can u even imagine #but for real no matter what they've said in the past i'm proud of them #hopefully this makes things better in the fandom and not worse

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **@OffTopicMichael:** #fuckthehaters #raychaelconfirmed #seriouslywhyisthissuchabigdeal #holyshityouguys #raylookscutetoday #ripmavin
> 
> **@GeoffRamseyOfficial: .** @OffTopicMichael hashtags? really? you’re out of the band
> 
> **@OffTopicMichael:**.@GeoffRamseyOfficial: geoff pls :((

 

> **@VinoG:** here for my lads. #ripmavin

 

> **@RyHaywood:** still don’t get twitter, but congrats to ray and michael- oh god they totally kissed, didn’t they. oh god. oh. kissing. gross. (kidding. ‘grats, boys. use protection)

  

> **@Jack_Pattillo:** Hey, good for Ray and Michael for posting that pic. The world needs more bravery. Hope everyone’s well!

 

> **@TheRealTuggLife:** called it. #raychael

 

> **@RayNarvaezJr:** thanks for all the support tonight, guys. we love you. 

 

* * *

**[08:13] burnie:** Band meeting. NOW.  
****

 

* * *

 

The cramped Off Topic office at RTHQ is the eye of the hurricane that is a fuming Burnie Burns. Ray stands alone before him, braving the storm before the others arrive.

It is, after all, his fault.

“Ray, this is serious, we can’t have this going everywhere-”

“It already _is_ everywhere.”

“Twitter, did it have to be fucking _Twitter-_ ”

Ray rolls his eyes. “What, were we just supposed to hide it?”

Burnie’s face is watermelon pink. He runs his fingers through thinning hair, breathing heavy. “ _Yeah_ , you _were_ , fuck, how do I get you out of this-” He grabs Ray by the shoulder. “Tell the press you were drunk.”

“I don’t drink.” Ray looks insulted, and shakes Burns off of him.

“Fine, so you were high, possessed, whatever the fuck, it can’t have been _you_ \- we’re getting you another interview, or a press release, something- Christ, first the damn Michael debacle, now this, you guys are awful-”

And then Ryan bursts through the door, followed by Lindsay, both looking like war. “Burns, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Hey, no, we need to protect our public image-”

But Lindsay is practically spitting fire, she is yelling, “FUCK YOU,”, she is pursing her lips, “I can’t believe you would think that two guys _kissing_ would dirty our goddamn name, you bastard, you dirty fucking _bastard_ -” and Jack’s there, too, trying to pull her back by the shoulder and failing miserably.

She’s all red hair and death glare- and Ryan’s maybe worse, wild-eyed and a spiteful half-smile, and they’re a terrifying pair, leaping down Burns’ throat every chance they can.

“So you can ask Michael and Gavin to _play up the gay_ for the fans, but the second it becomes real, you’re suddenly all fucking against it? What the fuck?”

“No, that’s not-”

“Oh, fuck _off_ , you’re a homophobic piece of shit and you know it. Don’t even fucking _talk_ to him, holy hell, Michael’s beating himself up over this enough, him and Ray don’t deserve this kinda shit from a guy like you-”

Ray is still standing there, though, and Jack sees him hovering uncomfortably with a pained line creasing his forehead with worry. He marches over to him, nudges him away from the firefight, muttering soft and tiny words of comfort.

“Hey, man, it’s gonna be fine, hey, hey, we’ll sort everything out. Don’t worry about it.”

“I-” Ray is shell-shocked and defeated, staring blankly ahead as they walk away. “I didn’t think- it just got so _big_.”

Jack’s face falls. “Ray… you did the right thing. Promise. Now c’mon, let’s get out of here. You need to get your mind off this shit. We’ll take care of the rest.”

So they leave. They meet Michael and Geoff at an arcade downtown and no one recognizes them and no one talks about anything at all except DDR and old clattering systems and diner food.

They’re safe.

For now.

 

* * *

 

**[13:04] lindsay:** so… we fired burnie 

**[13:04] lindsay:** im your new manager, for now. just like old times!

**[13:05] ray:** you are a fucking goddess lindsay tuggey

**[13:05] lindsay:** i know.

**[13:07] ray:** update: geoff is now toasting you at this arcade bar

**[13:07] ray:** [attached: img.3347]

**[13:08] lindsay:** AWW

**[13:08] lindsay:** #blessed 

 

* * *

 

 

 

> **@TheRealTuggLife:** dealing with homophobes is so tiring. another day of twitter blocking and dealing with assholes who want to capitalize on lgbt lives! -_-
> 
> **@TheRealTuggLife:** going on the record rn to say that being gay in the industry SUCKS. like, it’s cool but god, the world has a long way to go
> 
> **@TheRealTuggLife:** like I'm saying that as a gay girl, holy shit, it’s so annoying. my inbox is full of consumerist douches who think queer relationships are commodities
> 
> **@TheRealTuggLife:** so many people just aren’t respectful whatsoever. thought we were better than this

 

* * *

 

Ray taps his fingers on the couch cushion as the lights switch on, four blinding spots appearing in unison above him. A girl dabs his face with a spot of foundation. Words repeat, over and over, in his head.

Meg Turney stands off to the side of her interview set and chats up Gavin with a twinkle in her eye, fiddling with cue cards behind her back. Michael’s thigh is warm against Ray’s. Their hands fumble to find each other.

The interview is just the two of them. Meg is the only entertainment guru Lindsay trusts to handle the story respectfully, so it was arranged almost immediately. The past two days have been a blur of distraction and sedation and effectively hiding from the entire world, so it’s nice, to just spit out the truth, the real truth.

“Alright, live in five, four, three, two-”

Meg practically pushes Gavin away from her in a furious attempt to leap into her interviewer’s chair before the cameras roll; she achieves it with only a slight blush and a huff.

“Rolling,” says a PA. Gavin gives them all a thumbs up.

Meg smiles directly at a camera, teeth practically bared. “Hey everybody, I’m Meg Turney, and this is The Know. Joining me today are two boys that have been big on social media recently, Ray Narvaez Jr. and Michael Jones from the band Off Topic!”

Michael waves with a grin. Ray tries not to have an anxiety attack.

“These two have made headlines recently,” Meg continues, “with a recent tweet a couple of days ago.” The tweet and the selfie come up on the screen behind them. “Now, Ray, why don’t you explain the motivation behind… well… this?”

Ray frowns. “Motivation? I don’t.. there wasn’t much of a real _motivation_. We just kind of decided it was time to stop hiding.” He fixes Michael with a look saying _please, you fucker, help me out here._

Luckily, Michael takes the hint. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Like. It’s such a big part of our lives, I guess. Our fans have been amazing since we started the band, they’re so dedicated and it’s been a blast. I feel like _not_ tweeting it would feel really, uh, unauthentic, and shitty.”

“And from what I heard, the reception’s been pretty good, right?” Meg prompts.

“Yeah,” Ray says. “For the most part. I mean, there’s _always_ gonna be assholes out there, but our fans have been really, really great. So supportive. Can’t thank them enough.”

Meg nods, then asks, “What’s the hardest thing you’ve had to, I guess, deal with so far? In terms of responses from family, from fans…”

“Our manager,” Michael blurts out. He remembers Lindsay telling him not to discuss their corporate situation, and decides to ignore it. “He kept telling us to, uh, hide it. Y’know, wait for a better opportunity. We felt differently. So we got a new manager,” he laughs, “and to be perfectly honest, he was kind of a douche anyway.”

“Right,” says Meg. “So, your band has a huge following around the world. Do you see yourselves as, sort of _cornerstones_ for LGBT kids, especially within punk communities? Maybe even role models?”

Ray widens his eyes. “Uh, role models might be a stretch.” He scratches his undercut. “I don’t know. Personally, I feel a little uncomfortable with that. Like, I’m gonna mess up. Both of us are still figuring all this shit out right now. I don’t want to be idolized just for, uh, dating a guy. You get me?”

Meg nods. She sighs like she understands from experience. “I get you. Well put,” is all she says before moving on. “There’s been a lot of movement in the pop punk community this year. A lot of people have been coming out as queer- Arryn from the Rubies, Adam Kovic from Sex Swing… do you think this shift will encourage more people? How do you think it’ll affect your fans, for example?”

Michael takes this one. “First of all, we should totally hook up with Kovic soon,” he jokes. “No, but really. I think all this will be great for the community. We’ve been super lucky so far, what with our incredible fans. We haven’t had a huge amount of hate, and we don’t really read comments anyways. It’s not such a big deal for us as it is for most people. Maybe this’ll encourage our fans to be more… uh, open.”

Meg nods solemnly. “Yeah, I totally get that.” She smiles slightly. “Well, we’re just about out of time here. Thanks, again, for coming on the show, you guys!” she exclaims. “And good luck with everything!” She fixes her gaze on the camera. “Thanks for watching The Know!”

As the cameras turn off, Ray finds his stomach filling with something- perhaps, responsibility- that feels a little like dread.

* * *

  

 

> **@OTConfessions:** this is a confessions acct! dm me confessions abt anyone from off topic and i’ll publish them without comment! :D 

 

> **@OTConfessions:** mavin is dead fuck y'all
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** this entire fandom is so extra. can we chill for just one second holy SHIT we need to stop stalking them its gross
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** mavin ISNT DEAD so many people still love it i don't understand why rays tweet means that mavin has to die lmao
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** why isn’t there more raywood fic. i love them. they’re so underrated
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** RYAN IS SO HOT I WANT HIM TO **** MY ***
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** people in this fandom (esp m*vin shippers) are so fucking toxic and horrible. off topic deserves more than this
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** someone explain to me why geoff is always a badass in fics?? like. this man is DEFINITELY not hard and mean and cold… He Is Soft
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** #LINDSAYTUGGEYDESERVESBETTER
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** mavin shippers are so hated and i don't get it. most of us aren't harming anyone please stop using us as scapegoats
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** GEOVIN IS UNDERAPPRECIATED :(
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** everyone in this fandom is so biphobic lmao stop it y'all motherfuckers need to be educated about this shit
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** am i the only one that really really hates that ray and michael are together? it takes away so much attention from the others -_-
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** i fucking love jack. like. no one ever talks about him but his drumming is SO GREAT especially live. he's so nice. what a Good Guy
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** raychael is so LOVELY. i used to be a mavin stan but now i have Seen The Light 
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** why does no one talk about the 2013 photoshoot when geoff’s wearing eyeliner. it is a masterpiece. also ray looks so good in it
> 
> **@OTConfessions:** fuck lindsay i hate her and she should go fucking DIE

_@OTConfessions has been suspended._

 

* * *

 

> **TO:** [ **lindsaytuggey@mgmt.com** ](mailto:lindsaytuggey@mgmt.com)
> 
> **FROM:** [ **ihinck@outmagazine.org** ](mailto:ihinck@outmagazine.org)
> 
> Hi Ms. Tuggey,
> 
> We at Out Magazine would like to inquire about interview opportunities for Ray Narvaez and Michael Jones. We are a magazine focused on reporting on LGBT stories and celebrities and feel as if they could contribute a lot to the conversation about queer people in media. Everyone at Out has been following this story pretty closely and it would be great to have them feature in our next issue.
> 
> Let us know if you are interested and we’ll follow through with more details! 
> 
> Thanks,
> 
> Ian Hinck 
> 
> Out PR

 

 

> **TO:** [ **lindsaytuggey@mgmt.com** ](mailto:lindsaytuggey@mgmt.com)
> 
> **FROM:** [ **chadjames@rollingstone.com** ](mailto:chadjames@rollingstone.com)
> 
> Hi,
> 
> This is Chad James from Rolling Stone Magazine. We have been following the ongoing story surrounding Ray Narvaez Jr. and Michael Jones, and we were wondering if you had any time at all to perhaps conduct an interview with some of our top-rated reporters for our next issue? This would coincide with a photoshoot of the entire band as well as promotions across social media. We understand that you all must be very busy, but it would be great to have you as a feature!
> 
> Please contact us with any questions if needed!
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Chad James || Rolling Stone

 

* * *

 

**recent history**

google search: _how to respond to important emails_

google search: _no seriously this seems important how do i respond_

google search: _business email response examples_

google search: _help_

 

* * *

 

“Woah, what the fuck?”

Michael kicks a sling-shotted bra off the stage and laughs. “Hey, idiots, I have a _boyfriend_ now.” He says it quickly, with a grin. “Keep your goddamn fucking lady things out of my face.”

It’s their first show back after the announcement, some little venue in Vancouver, a shabby dark place that’s all pit. The crowd is nuts, raving, a little grabby, and the band’s never felt more alive.

Ray winks in Michael’s general direction. The entire crowd screams. It’s sort of cheating a bit, Ray realizes, dating within the band. The fans eat it up like it’s candy. He doesn’t care.

“Shove off,” shouts Gavin over the deafening instrumental. “You’re losers, that’s what you are! Bloody- ugh. Lame. Gross. All of you.” 

Geoff laughs into his mic. The lights turn red, purple, pink, but they can’t hide Ray’s blush. Ryan rolls his eyes and starts singing.

This is where he wants to be, Ray decides, fingers on the piston valves of his trumpet. For the rest of his life. Up here on a stage with his five best friends cracking jokes and playing their music. Playing their damn hearts out. It’s dark, and in that warm blush-light, he feels new again, every damn night on every damn stage he feels _new_.

_Golden_.

_Alive_.

The world tilts ever so slightly in his head with a raucous cry and the world is rushing up to meet him, the world is grabbing at his knees, the world is stroking his back and saying _hello_. He forgets all about sinking. 

And he forgets all about home.


	6. hearts beat for the diehards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry again for the wait. hopefully in the summer it won’t be a month-long wait between updates. also, the characters in this do not represent those of the actual rt staff. also, rt doesn’t have my permission to use this anywhere. don’t know why i waited until now to state that. also, i love you, hope you enjoy the chapter! <3  
> -E

Gavin Free is losing his goddamn mind.

He taps the edge of his laptop with thrumming fingers and screws his eyes shut as the software ever-so-slowly loads the next portion of the demo. For the first time, Ray has given him a song- or, at least, iPhone-recorded guitar and very quiet singing.

And nothing is working. Synth sounds too fake. Grand piano sounds too round and too serious. He can’t glean any concurrent harmonies from the chords and it all feels too unnatural.

It’s a good song though, actually, it’s sort of a masterpiece- the lyrics are stunning. Gavin almost can’t believe Ray wrote them. Strange metaphors and soft words, all sentiment, like nothing he’s ever really heard before. He’s just reading the chords over again and vainly attempting to play it out when Logic flat-out glitches and his laptop shuts down. 

He forces his fist into his mouth so he doesn’t wake up the whole tour bus when he lets out a scream. “Shite,” he snaps, “worthless fucking _shite_.”

“Gavin? Ryan calls, sticking his head into the room. “Hey, man, you good?”

Gavin’s lip curls. “No.”

“Talk to me.” Ryan sits in the chair next to Gavin in the makeshift recording studio, stroking his chin.

“Ugh. Ugh. Just… just a bad day. Laptop’s a bitch, but whatever.” He turns to Ryan. “Song’s fine. Think I just need to get back to Austin.”

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. “That might be good. Shit, we have to, like, write a whole album, don’t we?”

“Yep.”

“Fuuck.”

“It’s not too bad,” Gavin reasons. “We need time to make stuff again.” The bus rattles over a speed bump and he laughs. “God knows it’s hard to write songs on a damn tour bus.”

Ryan smiles. “Yeah, guess you’re right.” His gaze softens. “Hey, y’know… take it easy, Gav.”

“Easy?”

“It’s two in the morning and we’re on _tour_ and you’re here doing… what? Screwing around with Logic? Trying to create a song out of nothing?” He frowns. “You don’t have to work yourself this hard all the time, man.”

Gavin’s upper lip twitches. “Yeah, I do,” he says. “I have to keep going. I can’t stop. Do you know what I dream about? I dream about this bloody software. My nightmares are all songs.” He stares Ryan directly in the eyes. “I think you might know how that feels.”

“I… yeah,” says Ryan. “Yeah, I get it. Just… take care of yourself, alright?” He gets up, patting Gavin on the back. “We got your back. Just don’t forget about yourself.”

* * *

 

It’s late in the summer and the tour bus has stopped in New York for their final show. The air is muggy and warm and envelops Michael and Ray’s hotel room- because it’s _always_ hotel rooms with these two- when they open the window to smoke out of it.

They sit on the edge of the bed and let the smoke escape their mouths into the brimming city below them. Michael takes a drag and almost seems to laugh.  
“What’s so funny?” Ray asks. “Something on my face?”

Michael smiles through a wheeze. “Nah, man, nah. Just… thinking.”

“‘Bout what?”

“You.”

“Gay.”

He lets out a snicker. “Shut up. No, I’m just… you’re pretty.”

Ray _is_ pretty, in this light, the low orange and red, his pink streaks fading to platinum. Ray is pretty, generally. 

“I guess,” he murmurs, looking down. He supposes Michael is pretty cute, too, dotted with freckles, light catching in the burgundy of his hair. It’s quiet, for a moment, and peaceful, and still.

Except it’s quiet, until it isn’t. All of a sudden Michael’s fingers are digging into Ray’s shoulder and he’s dragging him over onto the bed. Dimples line a sharp grin. Everything is physical, the word is whirling, the pressure seems to _burn_.

“Whoa, whoa,” Ray says, scrambling for a grip on what’s happening, “hey, man, what the fuck are you doing?”

“You’re so fucking hot,” Michael breathes into his ear. “Dude,” he laughs, he laughs so loud and so _gleefully_ , “dude, we should just, like… do it.”

Ray scoots backwards as far as he can, heart pounding, bass drum in his wrist. “How high are you?” he rasps. “I- look. C’mon, man. Not now.”

“Aw, Ray, fuckin’, live a little-”

“Not _now_.” He chokes it out. He goddamn near strangles himself with his own tongue, but he chokes it out. “Not… not ever.” He exhales shakily. “I’m telling you. No.”

Michael seems to sober up immediately. His easy smile drops. “Huh?”

“I said I don’t want to fuck you, Michael.” Ray is stone-faced and cracking, he’s cracking hard, it’s happening again, he’s talking too much and falling too fast. “Some people just don’t like sex, okay?”

“Okay,” says Michael, very quickly. “Uh. Um. Fuck, okay.” He looks at his hands as if they’re weapons. “I fucked up.”

“No-”

“I fucked up,” he says again. “Just let me say that, okay? I’m sorry.” He has never looked more genuinely regretful in his life. “I’m an idiot. Fuck.”

Ray softens. He sits back down next to Michael and leans on his shoulder. “You’re not. I never told you. I never- I never even told _myself_. It’s not your fault.” He sucks in a deep breath and tries to concentrate on the slowly-dipping sun. “I’m just not wired right, I guess.”

Michael frowns, and grabs Ray’s wrist. “Hey- don’t, uh, don’t say that.” He’s a little spaced out, still riding a high, but a nagging part of his brain tells him to say something nice. “You’re fine. You’re good.” He looks at Ray’s eyes, brown shot through with a strange gold in the dusk light. “I don’t give a fuck that you don’t wanna fuck, you get me?” he says.

“Okay,” Ray says, cracking a smile. “Okay.”

“So…” Michael starts, “are you, uh… asexual? Or whatever?”

Ray bites his lip, running his tongue over his snakebites. “I guess?”

“Alright. There we go.”

“Holy fuck,” Ray laughs, suddenly. “Holy fuck, I can’t believe I just said that. Phew. Damn, glad that’s over and done with.”

Michael laughs, too, though he’s not really sure what’s so funny. Ray’s happy, though, which is what’s important, so he picks the joint back up and blows a few smoke rings in the dense silence. 

They’re quiet, again.

Ray leans into Michael’s arms with a sleeping smile.

* * *

 

**@RayNarvaezJr:** #weirdsequelideas Coming Out 2: The Labelling 

**@RayNarvaezJr:** aced it.

**@RayNarvaezJr:** ha ha ha. i’m fucking hilarious. ACED it. quality humour.

 

**@OffTopicMichael:** @RayNarvaezJr shitty sexuality puns? you’re out of the band

 

**@RayNarvaezJr:** @OffTopicMichael finally

 

* * *

 

**@aceray:** AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH

**@aceray:** IS S THIS REAL !

**@aceray:** WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT

**@aceray:** my fav… is like me. like, he’s just like ME and i feel REAL

 

**@no1raychaelstan:** *casually deletes my raychael smut fics*

**@no1raychaelstan:** but forreal, congrats on ray for bein brave and stuff, thats super cool of him 

**@no1raychaelstan:** this Discourse™ on my TL… holy shit… why are you all so acephobic

 

**@gvino:** wait whats going on someone fill me in

**@gvino:** …ray is asexual? hmmmmmmmmmm

**@gvino:** something abt that doesn't sit right w/ me. maybe its another publicity thing lmao probably

**@gvino:** just saying. it doesn't really add up. how much more attention do they need at this point god

**@gvino:** next thing you know someone at ot is gonna be trans or something smh what kinda special fuckin snowflakes

 

* * *

 

**_OUT_ EXCLUSIVE:** **OFF TOPIC’S MICHAEL AND RAY TALK ASEXUALITY, GUITARS AND BEING OUT IN THE ONLINE AGE**

by Ian Hinck

 

Ray Narvaez Jr. and Michael Jones look a lot like they were picked from the crowds of Warped Tour- when they sat down with me in a New York cafe for the interview, I, quite frankly, felt a little out of place- Jones was dressed for LA in a beachy white tank and ripped jeans while Narvaez, a self-described “angsty, disgusting man-child”, rocked a video game tee and newly-dyed pink hair. 

It’s not hard to see why they’ve got an accumulated 1.9 million Twitter followers- they’re attractive pop punk superstars breaching the mainstream music industry, and they’ve already got a couple of viral PR hits in the bank, including the dramatic revelation that they are, in fact, dating. They’re bashful when I bring it up.

 

**IH: So, let’s not beat around the bush- you are, ahem, not straight.** **You revealed this** **in a way that many would probably think is questionable, am I right?**

RNJ: Oh, boy. Ha, yeah, let’s not get into that PR disaster. Again.

MJ: That was a crazy fucking day. I mean… Twitter was probably not the best way to go about doing it. Putting that out there. But I guess it worked? It went a lot better than we ever could’ve hoped. Everyone went batshit insane, though. We were trending for, like, what was it, eight hours straight? Man. Fuckin’ ridiculous.

**IH: What sort of planning and prep went into that decision?**

MJ: Uh…

RNJ: Literally none. At all. Like, seriously. We literally took that selfie and went, “okay, cool, nice, let’s put this up where two million people can see it, oh yeah, this is a great fucking idea”. I’m not kidding!

MJ: Like, we told the band around a week before. Which was awesome, they’re great, yada yada. We wanted to keep it a secret, though, which I guess speaks to our own insecurity about all this, or whatever.

**IH: Right. So what were the conversations with the other band members like?**

MJ: Oh, all supportive. Definitely. They’re all incredible people. 

RNJ: Except Gavin.

MJ: Yeah, fuck that guy. Piece of shit [laughs]. Hey, can we swear in this?

**IH: Go for it.**

MJ: Oh, thank god. Anyway, yes, Gavin sucks and we hate him, but honestly- he’s great. Everyone’s great. The whole band’s been nothing but incredible about all this- and the fans, too! Duh. We’ve literally been thanking them non-stop. 

RNJ: It’s super weird, actually, being- _ahem_ \- queer, right now. You’ve got all these celebrities like Adam Kovic and _us_ coming out and stuff, and basically figuring ourselves out in real-time, just like a lot of our fans, y’know? It’s fucking awesome, to be kind of a- not a role model, but more of an, uh-

MJ: Affirmation?

RNJ: Yeah. An affirmation for them, that they’re not, like, weird. You get what I’m saying?

**IH: Totally. And you’ve just clarified your sexuality this past week, am I right?**

RNJ: Oh yeah. On Twitter again, fucking, obviously. But yeah, I’m asexual. Which is, uh, kinda a big deal for me to admit. I spent a really long time trying to go without labels but it all sort of clicked, I guess. It’s a nice feeling. I never knew what it meant until the internet, y’know? I guess I’m still coming out to people all the time, which is honestly fucking draining. It gets easier every time, though, especially with such a great fanbase.

**IH: Well, that’s good to hear! Are there any artists you’re a huge fan of right now?**

RNJ: [laughs] Anyone but Sex Swing.

MJ: Uh huh. Great guys. No, they’re great. Fucking _awful_ musicians. Should be ashamed to call themselves pop punk, they’re posers and their sound is shit. Love ‘em to death.

RNJ: No, but seriously. Sex Swing are actually super cool, our whole ‘rivalry’ is honest-to-God just jokes. Uh, as for other artists, there’s this DJ called Egoraptor that’s got some fucking great stuff, you’ve probably heard of him. But I don’t know, I’m really starting to get into more indie stuff, y’know? The Strangerhood, Cryaotic, Starbomb… I like supporting smaller artists. We used to be in their boat. 

**IH: I see! What’s in the works for Off Topic next?**

MJ: New stuff. There’s always new stuff, but… new stuff. Definitely. In the next few months. 

RNJ: Next album might be a little softer. A lot more experimentation with style, probably. We’ve all gone through a shit-ton in the last year, which means our songs will be, uh, sappy as fuck. Some people will love it, others won’t [shrugs].

**IH: Guess that’s to be expected. Alright, final question- I’m somewhat of an instrument addict. What guitars do you play?**

MJ: That’s the best question anyone’s ever asked us, dude. My main baby is this green Warmoth, its base is this really smooth dark wood, it’s fucking awesome.

RNJ: I’m still carting around an old steel-string acoustic I got when I was, like, fifteen, but for shows I usually play on this custom Gretsch masterpiece, it’s all pink and gold, super fucking expensive. But honest-to-god, I still love that steel-string more than anything in the damn world. 

MJ: More than me, Ray?

RNJ: Yeah.

MJ: You fucker.

 

**Off Topic’s debut album, Hand in Hand in Hand, is available on all platforms. Go check them out.**

 

> **// Ian Hinck is a genderqueer journalist that likes long walks on the beach, fancy martinis and tabletop games. And also cats.**

 

* * *

 

**@Jerem6401:** Just wrapped Off Topic’s US tour!! What an awesome fucking thing to have been a part of!!!!! WOO

**@TrevorC:** @Jerem6401 go home your drunk

**@Jerem6401:** @TrevorC ur drunk too dude!!

**@TrevorC:** @Jerem6401 fuck. we're all drunk. this was ddumb

 

The Off Topic b-team is out drinking, which is probably a big mistake on all of their parts.

Like, a really, _really_ big mistake.

“THIS PLACE IS FUCKING LIT,” Jeremy shouts over the deafening music, more than slightly tipsy. Kdin shakes her head and sips her glass of water, tapping out a mindless beat on the table.

Trevor raises an eyebrow. “Alright.” He downs the remainder of his beer. “Hey, have any of you ever been in a band? Like, you guys are the best and all, but we literally never talk about music.”

“Maybe that’s because music is our job,” Caleb says dryly. “Anyway, for the record, no. I can play a little cello, but that’s kinda it.”

“I was a concert pianist,” Matt blurts out.

Jeremy splutters. “YOU WHAT?”

“Yeah. It was cool. Fucked up my hand, though. So I became a set designer. Also I can play the trumpet?”

Jeremy laughs. “No way, dude! You never told me that in college. I actually played trumpet in band in high school.”

“Uh,” says Trevor, “same.”

Jeremy turns to Trevor with a glint in his eye and a mad grin. “Did we just become best friends?”

“I think we just became best friends.”

“Way to gay up the place, trumpet team,” Steffie laughs. “Break it up, boys. And, uh, no, I never really got into playing my own stuff. I know, like, two guitar notes.”  
“They’re called chords, Stef.”

“Chords! Chords, yes, I knew that. Of course.”

Matt furrows his eyebrows. “Steffie, you’re literally a roadie for a punk band.”

“Alright, alright, let’s agree to never bring this up again.” She turns to Trevor. “What about you, oh mighty question-asker? What’s your teen angst garage band story?”

He runs his fingers through his hair. “Stupid shit, y’know. Guitar, bass, singing, trumpet. Tried being a solo indie artist, didn’t work. Joined a band, didn’t work. I was a DJ for a hot minute.”

“What was your DJ name?” Kdin asks.

“Zed Direction.”

Jeremy spits out his beer.

As the night passes, everyone gets progressively drunker and drunker, save for Kdin. It’s six techie nerds plus a disproportionate amount of alcohol. Which, in hindsight, is not a great combination.

“Fuck, marry kill,” Trevor offers in a slur, “Ryan, Geoff, Gavin.”

Steffie rolls her eyes but Jeremy gladly pitches in. “Dude, yes. Fuck Gavin. _Obviously_ , he’s British, what’s _not_ to like- uh, marry Ryan ‘cause he can sing. And kill Geoff.”

“Aw, why Geoff?” Matt asks.

“He threw up on me after that show in New Orleans and I will _never_ forgive him.”

“Oof,” Steffie laughs. “Is it bad that I’m not surprised at all?”

Caleb chuckles. “Okay, wait. You’d fuck Gavin? Jeremy. _Gavin?_ ”

Jeremy swallows, putting on a hasty smile. “Uh, yeah, dude. He’s, like, tan. And scruffy. And _tall_.”

“I’m tall,” says Matt suddenly. “Uh, and scruffy.”

“You’re also my best friend,” Jeremy points out. “We’re not breaking the first rule of the Friendship Code.”

Trevor almost chokes. “You two have. A _Friendship Code_.”

“Of course we have a Friendship Code,” Matt scoffs. “But… Jeremy. Friends for three years, and you wouldn’t fuck me? That’s offensive. That’s just plain fucking rude.”

Jeremy puts his head in his hands. “Matt. There are lines that I won’t cross.”

“Yeah,” says Kdin. “In this case, the line is Matt’s dick up your butt. Y’know, I respect that, Dooley.”

“Okay, _okay_ , settle down with the dick talk-”

Trevor opens up his phone’s voice memo app and prepares to record all the blackmail material he can. Matt’s blush spreads across his cheeks like it’s a contagious disease.

By the time the night ends and they all stumble back into the hotel, Trevor is tweeting transcripts and Jeremy and Matt are holding hands.

Caleb hands Steffie five bucks. 

 

* * *

 

Jack is worrying.

But, then again, he’s always been a worrier. Ever since he was young- it was always “when’s mom coming home?” or “dad, what happens when we die?” or “Geoff, for fuck’s sake, stop drinking.” 

Right now, he’s worrying on an airplane. The hard back of the economy-class chair digs into his back with every kick from the little girl sat behind him. The sun glares at him through the window, floating in a sea of endless blue, as if to say _man, what the fuck are you doing?_

Off Topic is headed back to Austin. Finally, finally, they’re going back home. It’s pretty much all Lindsay and Jack’s fault, they’re basically the mom and dad of the damn band, but it’s pretty clear that they all need a break.

Still, though, Jack’s anxious. At some point Ray and Michael took up pot, he’s got no idea how or when or why. Geoff’s drunk more often than not these days. Gavin’s working himself to death, Ryan’s been moody and quiet lately, Lindsay’s tearing her damn hair out trying to keep them on a leash, and through it all, Jack worries. Jack frets. Touring has taken its toll on all of them.

Jack sighs and takes out his notebook and a pen. He reminds himself that they’re only in Austin to write and rehearse. They’re not there for interventions. 

_it’s funny how artistic we get when our hearts break/_ , he jots down. Quick poetry and fast concepts, that’s what he’s good for. _when our minds shake/ it’s a bad day_

“What are you doing?” 

Jack jumps. The girl sitting next to him is wide-eyed and smiling, peering at the notebook. He feels his face flush. “Uh, nothing.”

“No, really.” She’s pretty, with nut-brown hair and big bug eyes, and her accent is weird. He subconsciously flips the notebook closed. “Whatcha got there?”

He sighs. “Just… writing some stuff.”

“For what?”

“…Uh, I’m in a band.”

She looks almost impressed.

He stops worrying, if only for a minute.

The sun gleams through the window like a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can confirm: matt, jeremy and trevor have all actually separately stated that they can play the trumpet. do not ask me how i know this. i am in too deep


End file.
